THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WORDS  OF  CHEER 


,  L< 


FOR 


>  %  Coifing,  anb  tlje 


EDITED  BY 


T.     S.     ARTHUR, 


PHILADELPHIA: 
H.   C.   PECK    &    THEO.   BLISS. 

1856. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  tde  year  1856,  by 
II.  C.  PECK  &  THEO.  BLISS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for 
the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  E.  B.  MEARS 


PRINTED  BY  SMITH  &  PETERS, 

Franklin  Buildings,  Sixth  Street,  below  Arch. 

Philadelphia 


75 


PREFACE. 


As  we  pass  on  our  way  through  the  world,  we 
find  our  paths  now  smooth  and  flowery,  and  now 
rugged  and  difficult  to  travel.  The  sky,  bathed 
in  golden  sunshine  to-day,  is  black  with  storms 
to-morrow!  This  is  the  history  of  every  one. 
And  it  is  also  the  life-experience  of  all,  that 
when  the  way  is  rough  and  the  sky  dark,  the 
poor  heart  sinks  and  trembles,  and  the  eye  of 
faith  cannot  see  the  bright  sun  smiling  in  the 
heavens  beyond  the  veil  of  clouds.  But,  for 
all  this  fear  and  doubt,  the  rugged  path  winds 
steadily  upwards,  and  the  broad  sky  is  glittering 
in  light. 

Let  the  toiling,  the  tempted,  and  the  sorrowing 

(3) 

1542594 


IV  PREFACE. 


ever  keep  this  in  mind.  Let  them  have  faith  in 
Him  who  feedeth  the  young  lions,  and  clothes 
the  fields  with  verdure — who  bindeth  up  the 
broken  heart,  and  giveth  joy  to  the  mourners. 
There  are  Words  of  Cheer  in  the  air !  Listen ! 
and  their  melody  will  bring  peace  to  the  spirit, 
and  their  truths  strength  to  the  heart. 


CONTENTS. 


AUNT  MART     .        .       .  •      . Page  7 

THE  DEAD        .       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .24 

DO  TOU  SUFFER  MORE  THAN  TOUR  NEIGHBOUR?       ...      27 
WE  ARE  LED  BT  A  WAT  THAT  WE  KNOW  NOT  ....      32 

THE  IVT  IN  THE  DUNGEON    ^ 36 

THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 38 

HAVE  A  FLOWER  IN  TOUR  ROOM 44 

WEALTH  .        .•*• 49 

How  TO  BE  HAPPT       '.-',- 61 

REBECCA.        •        •        . 61 

LIFE  A  TREADMILL  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .63 

ARTHUR  LELAND      .        . 68 

THE  SCARLET  POPPY       .  '_• 76 

NUMBER  TWELVE      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .84 

To  AN  ABSENTEE 91 

THE  WHITE  DOVE 92 

HESTER Ill 

THISTLE-DOWN  i 112 

THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN 131 

WHAT  is  NOBLE? 139 

THE  ANEMONE  HEPATICA 140 

THE  FAMILT  OF  MICHAEL  AROUT 141 

BABT  is  DEAD 157 

THE  TREASURED  RINGLET 160 

HUMAN  LONGINGS  TOR  PEACE  AND  REST         .        .        .        .161 

(5) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

"BE  STRONG" ,-•        .        .  167 

THE  NEGLECTED  ONB       .         .        «        .        .    '    .        .        .168 

THE  HOURS  OF  LIFE        .        .        .        •  .      .      •  »        .'•  183 

MINISTERING  ANGELS       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  202 

OURS,  LOVED,  AND  "GONE  BEFORE"       .        ...        .  203 

OUTWARD  MINISTERINGS  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  219 

BODILY  DEFORMITY,  SPIRITUAL  BEAUTY  .        .        .    '  .        .  221 

THE  DEAD  CHILD 223 

WATER .        .  224 

BEAUTIFUL,  HAPPY,  AND  BELOVED 226 

"  EVERY  CLOUD  HAS  A  SILVER  LINING"  ..."'..  227 

AN  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE           .         ..,      .  •      .        .      '.        .  230 

THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE  .        .        .        ...        .  231 

A  HYMN  OF  PRAISE 247 

AN  ANGEL  IN  EVERY  HOUSE    •    "..••        .        .        .        .  248 

ANNIB .        .        .        .250 

MOTHER 251 

GREAT  PRINCIPLES  AND  SMALL  DUTIES 253 

"OF  SUCH  IS  THE  KINGDOM  OF  HEAVEN"        ....  256 

THE  OLD  VILLAGE  CHURCH     , 258 

"THE  WORD  is  NIGH  THEE" 265 

AUNT  RACHEL 266 

COMETH  A  BLESSING  DOWN       . 270 

THE  DARKENED  PATHWAY        .......  271 

LOOK  ON  THIS  PICTURE 282 

THE  POWER  OF  KINDNESS 284 

SPEAK  KINDLY         .                 286 

HAVE  PATIENCE 288 

DO  THEY  HISS  ME? *  .        .        .  299 


WORDS  OF  CHEER 


AUNT  MARY. 

A  LADY  sat  alone  in  her  own  apartment  one  clear  even 
ing,  when  the  silver  stars  were  out,  and  the  moon  shone 
pure  as  the  spirit  of  peace  upon  the  rebellious  earth. 
How  lovely  was  every  outward  thing !  How  beautiful  is 
God's  creation  !  The  window  curtains  were  drawn  close, 
and  the  only  light  in  the  cheerful  room,  was  given  by  a 
night-lamp  that  was  burning  on  the  mantel-piece.  The 
occupant,  who  perhaps  had  numbered  about  thirty-five 
years,  was  sitting  by  a  small  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  her  head  leaning  upon  one  slender  hand;  the 
other  lay  upon  the  open  page  of  a  book  in  which  she  had 
endeavoured  to  interest  herself.  But  the  effort  had  been 
vain ;  other  and  stronger  feelings  had  overpowered  her  ; 
there  was  an  expression  of  suffering  upon  the  gentle 
face,  over  which  the  tears  rained  heavily.  For  a  brief 
moment  she  raised  her  soft  blue  eyes  upward  with  an 

(7) 


AUNT  MARY. 

appealing  look,  then  sunk  her  head  upon  the  table 
before  her,  murmuring, 

"  Father !  forgive  me !  it  is  good  for  me.  Give  me 
strength  to  bear  everything.  Pour  thy  love  into  my 
heart,  for  I  am  desolate — if  I  could  but  be  useful  to  one 
human  being — if  I  could  make  one  parson  happier,  I 
should  be  content.  But  no !  I  am  desolate — desolate. 
Whose  heart  clings  to  mine  "with  the  strong  tendrils  of 
affection  ?  Who  ever  turns  to  me  for  a  smile  ?  Oh ! 
this  world  is  so  cold — so  cold !" 

And  that  sensitive  being  wept  passionately,  and 
pressed  her  hand  upon  her  bosom  as  if  to  still  its  own 
yearnings. 

Mary  Clinton  had  met  with  many  sorrows ;  she  was 
the  youngest  of  a  large  family ;  she  had  been  the 
caressed  darling  in  her  early  days,  for  her  sweetness 
won  every  heart  to  love.  She  had  dwelt  in  the  warm 
breath  of  affection,  it  was  her  usual  sunshine,  and  she 
gave  it  no  thought  while  it  blessed  her ;  a  cold  word  or 
look  was  an  unfamiliar  thing.  A  most  glad-hearted 
being  she  was  once !  But  death  came  in  a  terrible  form, 
folded  her  loved  ones  in  his  icy  arms  and  bore  them  to 
another  world.  A  kind  father,  a  tender  mother,  a 
brother  and  sister,  were  laid  in  the  grave,  in  one  short 
month,  by  the  cholera.  One  brother  was  yet  left,  and 
she  was  taken  to  his  home,  for  he  was  a  wealthy  mer 
chant.  But  there  seemed  a  coldness  in  his  splendid 
house,  a  coldness  in  his  wife's  heart.  Sick  in  body  and 
in  mind,  the  bereft  one  resolved  to  travel  South,  and 
visit  among  her  relations,  hoping  to  awaken  her  interest 
in  life,  which  had  lain  dormant  through  grief.  She 


AUNT   MARY.  9 

went  to  that  sunny  region,  and  while  there,  became 
acquainted  with  a  man  of  fine  intellect  and  fascinating 
manners,  who  won  her  aifections,  and  afterwards  proved 
unworthy  of  her.  Again  the  beauty  of  her  life  was 
darkened,  and  with  a  weary  heart  she  wore  out  the 
tedious  years  of  her  joyless  existence.  She  was  an 
angel  of  charity  to  the  poor  and  suffering.  She  grew 
lovelier  through  sorrow.  'A  desire  to  see  her  brother, 
her  nearest  and  dearest  relative,  called  her  North  again, 
and  when  our  story  opens  she  was  in  the  bosom  of  his 
home,  a  member  of  his  family.  He  loved  her  deeply, 
yet  she  felt  like  an  alien — his  wife  had  not  welcomed 
her  as  a  sister  should.  Mary  Clinton's  heart  went  out 
toward's  Alice,  her  eldest  niece,  a  beautiful  and  loving 
creature  just  springing  into  womanhood.  But  the  fair 
girl  was  gay  and  thoughtless,  flattered  and  caressed  by 
everybody.  She  knew  sadness  only  by  the  name. 
She  had  no  dream  that  she  could  impart  a  deep  joy, 
by  giving  forth  her  young  heart's  love  to  the  desolate 
stranger. 

The  hour  had  grown  late,  very  late,  and  Mary  Clinton 
still  leaned  her  head  upon  the  table  buried  in  thoughts, 
when  the  bounding  step  of  Alice  outside  the  door 
aroused  her  from  her  revery.  She  listened,  almost 
hoping  to  see  her  friendly  face  peeping  in,  but  wearied 
with  the  enjoyment  of  the  evening,  the  fair  young  belle 
hastened  on  to  her  chamber,  and  her  aunt  heard  the 
door  close.  Rising  from  her  seat  at  the  table,  Miss 
Clinton  approached  a  window,  and  threw  back  the  cur 
tains,  that  the  midnight  air  might  steal  coolingly  over 
her  brow.  Her  eye  fell  upon  the  rich  bracelet  that 


10  AUNT   MARY. 

clasped  her  arm,  a  gift  of  her  brother,  and  then  with  a 
sad  smile,  she  surveyed  the  pure  dress  of  delicate  white 
she  wore.  "  Ah !"  she  sighed,  "  I  am  robed  for  a  scene 
of  gayety,  but  how  sad  the  heart  that  beats  beneath  this 
boddice  !  How  glad  I  was  to  escape  from  the  company ; 
loneliness  in  the  crowd  is  so  sad  a  feeling."  At  that 
moment  the  door  of  her  room  opened,  and  Alice  came 
laughing  in,  her  glowing  face  all  bright  and  careless. 

"Oh!  Aunt  Mary,"  she  exclaimed,  "do  help  me!  I 
cannot  unclasp  my  necklace,  and  my  patience  has  all 
oozed  out  at  the  tips  of  my  fingers.  There  !  you  have 
unfastened  it  already.  Well !  I  believe  I  never  will  be 
good  for  anything !"  And  Alice  laughed  as  heartily,  as 
if  the  idea  was  charming.  "  When  did  you  leave  the 
parlours,  Aunt  Mary?  I  never  missed  you  at  all. 
Father  said  you  left  early,  when  I  met  him  just  now 
on  the  stairs." 

"I  did  leave  early,"*  replied  Miss  Clinton.  "I 
chanced  to  feel  like  being  entirely  alone,  so  I  sought 
my  own  apartment." 

"  Have  you  been  reading,  aunt?  I  should  think  you 
would  feel  lonely!" 

"  I  read  very  little,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  sad  tone. 
No  remark  was  made  on  her  loneliness. 

"  It  seems  so  strange  to  me,  Aunt  Mary,  that  you  are 
so  fond  of  being  alone.  I  like  company  so  much,"  said 
Alice,  looking  in  her  quiet  face.  "  But  I  must  go,"  she 
added ;  she  paused  a  moment,  then  pressed  an  affection 
ate  kiss  upon  her  aunt's  cheek,  and  whispered  a  soft 
"good  night."  Miss  Clinton  cast  both  arms  around 
her,  and  drew  he;*  to  her  heart,  with  an  eagerness  that 


AUNT    MARY.  11 

surprised  Alice.  Twice  she  kissed  her,  then  hastily 
released  her  as  if  her  feelings  had  gone  forth  before  she 
was  aware  of  it.  Alice  stood  still  before  her  a  moment, 
and  her-  careless  eyes  took  a  deeply  searching  expres 
sion  as  they  dwelt  upon  the  countenance  before  her. 
Something  like  sadness  passed  over  her  face,  and  her 
voice  was  deeper  in  its  tone,  as  she  repeated,  "  Good 
night,  dear  Aunt  Mary  !"  With  a  slow  step  she  left 
the  apartment,  mentally  contrasting  her  own  position 
with  that  of  her  aunt.  Circumstances  around  her  and 
the  society  with  which  she  mingled,  tended  to  drown 
reflection,  and  call  into  play  only  the  brighter  and 
gayer  feelings,  that  flutter  on  the  surface  of  our  being. 
She  had  never  known  the  luxury  of  devoting  an  hour  to 
genuine  meditation  on  the  world  within — or  the  great 
world  without.  The  earth  was  to  her  a  garden  of  joy ; 
she  lived  upon  it  only  to  enjoy  herself.  Like  many 
selfish  people,  Alice's  mother  made  an  idol  of  her 
beautiful  child,  because  she  was  a  part  of  herself;  and 
Mrs.  Clinton  was  not  one  to  perform  a  mother's  duty 
faithfully  in  instilling  right  views  of  life  into  her  daugh 
ter's  mind.  Thus,  with  a  depth  of  feeling,  and  rich 
gifts  of  mind,  Alice  fluttered  on  her  way,  like  a  light- 
winged  butterfly,  her  soul's  pure  wells  of  tender  thought 
unknown  to  her.  How  many  millions  pass  through  a 
whole  long  life,  with  the  deepest  and  holiest  secrets  of 
their  being  still  unlocked  by  their  heedless  hands !  How 
few  see  aught  to  live  for,  but  the  outward  sunshine  of 
prosperity,  which  is  an  idle  sunshine,  compared  with  the 
ever-strengthening  light  that  may  grow  in  the  spirit ! 
How  strong,  how  great,  how  beautiful  may  life  be,  when 


12  AUNT   MARY. 

smiled  upon  by  our  Creator !  how  weak,  how  abject, 
how  trampled  upon,  when  turned  away  from  his  face  ! 

With  better  and  more  quiet  emotions,  Mary  Clinton 
retired  to  rest.  "  I  can  love  others,  if  I  am  not 
beloved,"  she  murmured,  and  the  dove  of  peace  flut 
tered  its  white  wing  over  her.  Her  resigned  prayer 
was,  "Lord,  into  thy  hands  I  commit  my  spirit." 
Tears  of  earnest  humility  had  washed  away  all  bitter 
ness  from  the  wrung  heart  of  that  lovely  being.  How 
beautiful  was  the  angel  smile  that  played  over  her  face, 
in  her  pure  dreams  ! 

A  few  weeks  after,  Alice  entered  her  aunt's  apart 
ment  one  drizzling,  damp,  foggy,  uncomfortable  day. 
"  Such  miserable  weather !"  she  exclaimed,  throwing 
herself  idly  into  an  arm-chair ;  "  I  believe  I  have  got 
the  blues  for  once  in  my  life.  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  myself;  it  makes  me  perfectly  melancholy  to  look 
out  of  the  window,  and  nothing  in  the  house  wears  a 
cheerful  aspect.  Mother  has  a  headache ;  when  I  pro 
posed  reading  to  her,  she  very  politely  asked  me  if  I 
would  not  let  her  remain  alone.  She  says  I  always 
want  to  sing,  read,  or  talk  incessantly  if  she  wishes  to 
be  quiet.  I  can't  ding  on  the  piano,  for  it  is  heard  from 
attic  to  basement.  I  don't  want  to  read  alone,  for  I 
have  such  a  desire  to  be  sociable — now,  Aunt  Mary,  you 
have  a  catalogue  of  my  troubles,  can't  you  relieve  me, 
for  I  am  really  miserable,  if  I  don't  look  so  !"  Alice 
broke  into  a  laugh,  although  it  did  not  bubble  right  up 
from  her  merry  heart  as  usual. 

"  If  your  attention  was  fully  engaged,  you  would  not 
mind  the  weather  so  much,"  remarked  Aunt  Mary,  with 


AUNT   MARY.  13 

a  quiet  smile.  "  You  are  not  in  a  mood  to  enjoy  a  book 
just  now,  so  what  will  you  do,  my  dear?" 

"  Mend  stockings,  or  turn  my  room  upside  down,  and 
then  arrange  it  neatly,"  said  Alice  in  a  speculative 
tone.  "  There  is  nothing  in  the  house  to  interest  me ; 
there  is  Patty  in  the  kitchen,  I  have  just  been  paying 
her  a  visit.  She  is  as  busy  as  a  bee,  and  as  happy  as  a 
queen.  I  believe  poor  people  are  happier  than  the  rich, 
in  such  weather  as  this,  at  least." 

"  Because  they  are  useful,  Alice ;  go  busy  yourself 
about  some  physical  labour  for  an  hour  or  two,  then 
come  back  to  me,  and  I  predict  your  face  will  be  as 
sunshiny  as  ever.  I  am  in  earnest — you  need  not  look 
so  incredulous !" 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  asked  the  young  girl  laughing. 
"  I  don't  know  how  to  do  a  single  thing  in  domestic 
matters.  Mother  says  I  shall  never  work.  It  would 
spoil  my  fairy  fingers,  I  presume,  a  terrible  conse 
quence  !" 

"  But  seriously  Alice,  you  are  not  so  entirely  incapa 
ble  of  doing  anything,  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  positively,  but  I  can  learn  if  I  choose.  I 
believe  I  will  sweep  my  room  and  put  it  in  order,  as  a 
beginning.  That  will  be  something  new :  now  I  will  try 
my  best !"  Alice  sprang  from"  her  chair,  and  tripped 
from  the  apartment  quite  pleased  with  the  idea.  A 
smile  broke  over  Miss  Clinton's  features,  after  her  niece 
had  left  her  alone.  "  How  easily  Alice  might  be  trained 
to  better  things,  by  love  and  gentleness,"  she  said  half 
aloud.  "  Oh  !  if  she  would  only  love  me,  and  turn  to 
me  fondly.  How  I  would  delight  to  breathe  a  genial 


14  AUNT   MARY. 

prayer  over  the  .buds  of  promise  in  her  youthful  heart, 
and  fan  them  to  warmer  life."  More  than  an  hour  flew 
by,  as  Mary  Clinton  sat  in  thought,  devising  plans  to 
awaken  her  favourite  to  a  true  sense  of  her  duties — to  a 
knowledge  of  her  capabilities  for  happiness  and  useful 
ness.  We  may  be  .useful  with  a  heart  full  of  sadness  ; 
but  we  can  rarely  taste  of  happiness,  unless  we  are- 
desirous  to  benefit  some  one  besides  ourselves.  A 
quietness  came  over  the  lonely  one  as  she  mused — a 
spirit  of  beautiful  repose ;  for  she  forgot  all  thoughts 
of  her  own  enjoyment,  in  caring  for  another. 

"You  are  quite  a  physician,  Aunt  Mary,  to  a  mind 
diseased,"  exclaimed  Alice,  breaking  her  revery  as  she 
came  in  with  a  smiling  face,  after  the  performance  of 
her  unaccustomed  labour.  "  I  am  quite  in  tune  again 
now.  I  believe  there  is  a  little  philosophy  in  being  busy 
occasionally,  after  all." 

"  There  is  really,"  replied  Miss  Clinton,  raising  her 
deep  blue  eyes  to  Alice's  face,  with  their  pleasant 
expression ;  "  and  there  is  also  philosophy  in  recreation 
— in  abandoning  yourself  for  a  time  to  innocent  gayety. 
An  hour  of  enjoyment  is  refreshing  and  beneficial." 

"Why,  Aunt  Mary!"  said  Alice  in  some  surprise,  "I 
had  no  idea  that  you  thought  so-  You  are  always  so 
industrious  and  quiet,  I  imagined  you  disapproved  of 
the  merriment  of  ordinary  people.  When  we  have  a 
large  company  you  almost  always  retire  early.  Why 
do  you  do  so,  aunt,  may  I  ask  you?" 

Mary  Clinton  was  silent  a  moment,  then  she  said 
gently,  "  When  I  think  I  can  add  to  the  ease  or  enjoy 
ment  of  any  person  present,  I  take  pleasure  in  staying  ; 


AUNT  MARY.  15 

but  when  I  feel  that  I  am  rather  a  restraint  than  other 
wise,  I  retire — to  weep.  You  are  yet  young  and 
beautiful,  my  child,  for  you  have  never  known  such 
feelings.  I  am  too  selfish,  or  I  would  not  be  sad  so 

o  7 

often ;  it  is  right  that  I  should  pass  through  such  a 
school  of  discipline.  I  hope  it  has  already  made  me 
better."  The  look  of  resignation  that  beamed  from 
Miss  Clinton's  tearful  eyes,  caused  a  chord  in  Alice's 
heart  to  tremble  with  a  strange  blending  of  love,  sweet 
ness,  and  sorrow. 

"You  should  be  happy,  if  any  one  should,  dear  aunt," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  she  partly  averted  her  head, 
to  conceal  the  tears  that  started  down  her  cheek.  "  I 
am  happy  so  often,"  she  resumed,  turning  around  and 
seating  herself  upon  an  ottoman  at  her  aunt's  feet. 
"  You  deserve  so  much  more  than  I — to  be  as  good  as 
you  are,  Aunt  Mary,  I  would  almost  change  situations, 
for  then  I  should  be  sure  of  going  to  heaven." 

"  You  can  be  just  as  sure  in  your  own  position,  as  in 
that  of  any  other  person.  But,  dear  child,  the  more 
deeply  we  scan  our  hearts,  the  more  we  see  there  to 
conquer,  in  order  that  we  may  become  fit  companions 
for  the  angels." 

Alice  remained  thoughtful  for  some  moments,  then 
she  folded  her  hands  over  Aunt  Mary's  lap,  and  lifted 
her  eyes  to  the  loving  face  that  bent  over  her.  "  Be  my 
guardian  angel,"  she  prayed  tearfully,  "  your  love  is  so 
pure ;  a  gentleness  comes  over  me,  when  I  am  with  you. 
All  tumultuous  feelings  sink  down  to  repose.  I  have 
not  known  you,  Aunt  Mary ;  you  have  shown  me  to-day 
how  lovely  goodness  is.  I  can  feel  it  in  your  presence. 


16  AUNT    MARY. 

Oh  !  to  possess  it !  I  fear  it  will  be  long  years  before  I 
grow  so  gentle  in  my  spirit — so  unselfish — so  like  a  child 
of  Heaven !" 

"  Hush,  hush  !"  was  Mary  Clinton's  gentle  interrup 
tion.  "  You  do  not  know  me  yet,  Alice.  Perhaps  I 
appear  far  better  than  I  am." 

Alice  smiled,  and  laying  her  arm  around  Aunt  Mary's 
neck,  drew  down  her  face,  and  kissed  her  affectionately, 
whispering,  "  You  will  be  my  guide,  I  ask  no  better." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  broke  from  Aunt  Mary's 
lips  ;  she  pressed  Alice's  cheek  with  the  ardent  haste  of 
love  and  gratitude ;  then  yielding  to  the  emotions  that 
thrilled  her  heart,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  wept  with  a 
joy  she  had  long  been  a  stranger  to.  She  felt  that  her 
life  would  no  longer  be  useless,  if  she  could  live  for 
Alice,  and  lift  up  to  God  her  heart.  How  beautiful  in 
its  freshness,  is  the  early  day  when  the  light  of  a  good 
resolve  breaks  like  a  halo  over  the  soul,  and  by  its 
power,  seeks  to  win  it  from  its  selfish  idols !  Earnest 
and  strong  is  the  hopefulness  that  bids  us  labour  trust 
ingly  to  become  all  we  yearn  to  be — all  we  may  be. 
How  tremblingly  Mary  Clinton  leaned  upon  her  Sa 
viour  !  experience  had  taught  her  the  weakness  of  her 
fluttering  heart ;  sorrow  was  familiar,  yet  she  prayed 
not  to  shrink  from  it.  How  clear  and  vigorous  was  the 
mind  of  Alice — how  shadowless  was  her  unerring  path 
to  be — how  all  weakness  departed  before  the  sudden 
thought  that  rose  up  in  her  soul !  How  rich  was  the 
light  that  beamed  from  her  steady  eye — how  calm  and 
trusting  the  slight  smile  that  parted  her  lips !  How 
meek  and  confiding  she  was,  and  yet  how  full  of 


AUNT   MARY.  17 

strength !  She  was  a  young  seeker  after  truth,  and 
she  realized  not  yet,  that  that  same  truth  was  the  power 
to  which  she  must  bow  every  rebellious  thing  within  her. 
Months  rolled  on,  and  the  quiet  gladness  in  her  heart 
made  it  a  delight  to  her  to  do  anything  and  everything 
it  seemed  her  duty  to  do.  The  unexplored  world  within 
opened  to  her  gaze,  and  threw  a  glory  upon  creation. 
Infinitely  priceless  in  her  eyes,  were  the  thousand  hearts 
around  her,  in  which  the  Lord  had  kindled  the  undying 
lamp  of  life. 

One  evening,  at  rather  a  late  hour,  Alice  Clinton 
sought  the  chamber  of  her  aunt  and  seated  herself 
quietly  beside  her,  saying  in  a  subdued  voice  as  she  took 
her  hand,  "  I  am  inexpressibly  sad  to-night,  Aunt  Mary. 
There  is  no  very  particular  reason  why  I  should  feel  so ; 
no  one  can  soothe  me  but  you.  Put  your  arms  around 
me,  Aunt  Mary,  and  talk  to  me — give  me  some  strength 
to  go  forward  in  the  way  I  have  chosen.  I  almost 
despair — I  have  no  good  influence,  no  moral  courage. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  my  efforts  have  been  vain  to  become 
better,  and  I  shall  sink  back  into  my  former  state.  If 
all  who  are  my  friends  were  like  you,  it  would  be  an 
easy  thing  to  glide  on  with  the  stream.  But  I  am  in 
the  midst  of  peril — I  never  knew  until  to-night  that  it 
was  hard  to  speak  with  a  cold  rigour  to  our  friends  when 
they  merit  it.  If  I  were  despised,  or  neglected,  I  could 
more  easily  fix  my  thoughts  on  heaven.  I  dread  so  to 
Lurt  the  feelings  of  any  one." 

"What  do  you  refer  to,  dear?"  inquired  Aunt  Mary, 
tenderly. 

"  My  friend  Eleanor  Temple,  and  her  brother  Theo- 
2 


18  AUNT   MAKT. 

dore,  have  been  spending  the  evening  with  me.  You 
know  how  gay  and  witty  they  are.  In  answer  to  a 
remark  of  mine,  Theodore  gravely  quoted  a  passage  of 
Scripture,  which  applied  to  my  observation  in  an  irre 
sistibly  ludicrous  manner.  I  yielded  to  a  hearty  laugh 
which  I  could  not  restrain ;  it  came  so  suddenly  I  had 
no  time  for  thought.  But  in  a  moment  after  my  con 
science  smote  me,  and  I  felt  that  my  respect  for 
Theodore  had  lessened.  I  had  no  right  to  rebuke  him, 
even  if  I  had  the  moral  courage,  for  my  laughter  was 
encouragement.  I  turned  away  from  him  and  spoke  to 
Eleanor ;  I  was  displeased  with  myself,  and  I  felt  a  sort 
of  inward  repugnance  to  him.  But  that  was  not  the 
end ;  several  times  afterwards  Theodore  did  the  same 
thing. 

" '  There  are  subjects  which  are  not  fit  food  for  merri 
ment  ;'  I  said  once  in  an  embarrassed  manner.  '  If  I 
do  wrong,  it  is  not  deliberately  done.'  Theodore  was 
silent  a  moment,  and  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he  hardly 
knew  how  to  understand  me — then  smiling,  he  turned 
the  conversation,  and  was  as  gay  as  ever.  When  they 
had  taken  their  leave,  I  entered  the  parlour  again,  and 
threw  myself  in  a  seat  by  the  open  window.  I  turned 
the  blind,  and  looked  out  after  them.  Eleanor  had 
caught  the  fringe  of  her  mantilla  in  the  railing  of  the 
area.  I  was  about  to  speak  with  her  on  the  little  acci 
dent,  when  Theodore  laughed,  and  said  to  his  sister, 
*  Alice  is  as  fond  of  taking  characters,  as  an  actress. 
She  attempted  to  reprove  me,  for  the  very  thing  she 
had  laughed  at  a  little  while  before.  Rather  inconsist 
ent  in  our  favourite,  Nelly,  don't  you  think  so?'' 


ADNT    MARY.  19 

Eleanor  laughed,  and  said  good-naturedly,  '  Alice  is 
impulsive,  she  don't  measure  what  she  says,  before  it 
comes  out.' 

"  I  rose,  and  left  the  window.  I  felt  sad,  and  pecu 
liarly  discomposed  and  dissatisfied  with  myself.  I  knew 
that  I  had  tried  to^do  right  in  some  degree,  and  it  grated 
on  my  feelings  that  my  effort  should  be  called  '  a  taking 
of  chaiacter.'  Oh !  if  I  could  only  live  with  good  peo 
ple  altogether,  who  would  bear  with  me,  and  trust  my 
motives !  You  have  my  story,  Aunt  Mary,  it  amounts 
to  nothing,  but  I  am  so  sad." 

"Life  is  made  up  of  trifles,"  said  Miss  Clinton. 
"  Few  circumstances  are  so  trivial  that  we  may  not 
draw  a  lesson  from  them.  Do  not  feel  sad,  Alice, 
because  you  are  misunderstood.  Do  not  repine  on 
account  of  your  position ;  no  one  could  fill  it  but  your 
self,  or  you  would  not  be  placed  in  it.  Be  resigned  to 
meet  those  who  call  out  unpleasant  feelings ;  they  teach 
you  better  your  own  nature  than  ever  the  angels  could. 
They  bring  forth  what  is  evil  in  you,  that  it  may  be 
conquered.  Do  not  understand  me  to  mean  that  you 
should  ever  seek  those  who  may  harm  you.  But  a  day 
can  hardly  pass  over  our  heads,  that  we  do  not  meet 
with  persons  who  ruffle  that  harmony  of  soul  we  so 
labour  after.  It  is  keenly  felt  when  one  is  as  young  in 
a  better  life  as  you  are.  You  need  strength,  and  then 
you  will  be  calm  and  even.  Time,  patience,  combating, 
prayer,  good-will  to  man,  must  bring  your  soul  to  order, 
then  you  will  bear  upon  the  spirits  of  others  with  a  still, 
purifying  power  which  will  soothe  and  soften  like  far-off 
music.  You  have  it  in  your  power  to  do  much  good ; 


20  AUNT   MART. 

your  Creator  has  blessed  you  with  that  inexpressible 
sympathy  which  may  glide  gently  into  another  human 
heart  and  open  its  secret  springs  almost  unconsciously 
to  the  possessor.  I  have  watched  you,  child  of  my  love, 
and  perhaps  I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself. 
There  are  many  latent  germs  within  your  being ;  Oh  ! 
Alice,  pray  God  to  expand  them  to  heavenly  life.  Bear 
on — and  live  for  something  worthy  a  creature  God  has 
made."  Mary  Clinton  paused  in  an  unusual  emotion ; 
her  cheek  glowed  deeply,  and  the  burning  softness  of 
her  eyes  chained  Alice's  look  as  with  a  spell,  to  their 
angel  expression.  The  heart  of  the  young  girl  throbbed 
almost  to  bursting,  with  the  world  of  undeveloped  feel 
ing  that  rushed  over  her.  It  was  a  moment  which  many 
have  experienced — a  moment  which  breaks  over  the 
young  for  the  first  time  with  such  a  thrill — she  realized 
that  God  had  gifted  her  with  power — with  a  soul  that 
might  and  must  have  its  influence.  Bowing  her  head 
upon  Aunt  Mary's  knee,  she  wept ;  and  a  flood  of  joy, 
humility,  and  thanksgiving  came  over  her,  as  she  more 
deeply  dedicated  herself  to  the  holy  Lord,  and  laid  her 
gifts  upon  His  altar.  Aunt  Mary's  vrords  sunk  peace 
fully  into  her  soul,  and  a  clear  light  irradiated  it  and 
filled  it  with  a  calmness  that  made  all  things  right. 
With  a  look  of  irrepressible  tenderness,  and  a  voice  full 
of  low  music,  Alice  said  to  Aunt  Mary,  as  she  rose  to 
retire,  "  You  have  charmed  away  every  discordant  note 
that  was  touched  to-night,  dear  aunt.  How  unaccount 
able  are  our  sudden  changes  of  mood !  You  have  now 
thrown  over  me  your  own  spirit  of  peaceful  repose  and 
contentment.  Good-night,  nnd  thank  you  !" 


AUNT    MART.  21 

"  Well,  I  am  content,  entirely  content,"  soliloquized 
Mary  Clinton,  when  the  loved  form  of  the  child  of  her 
heart  had  disappeared.  "  To  try  to  bless  another,  how 
richly  does  the  blessing  fall  back  upon  my  own  soul ! 
Yes  !  I  have  my  joys.  Why  am  I  ever  so  ungrateful  as 
to  murmur  at  aught  that  befalls  me  ?  I  am  blest — a 
sunshine  is  breaking  over  the  tender  earth  for  me ;  all 
clouds  are  gone."  With  feelings  much  changed  from 
what  they  were  a  few  months  previous,  Mary  Clinton 
sought  the  window,  and  with  loving  and  devoted  eyes 
dwelt  upon  the  night  and  stillness  of  the  heavens — so 
boundless  and  so  pure.  The  moon  was  full ;  near  it  was 
one  bright  cloud  of  silver  drapery,  upon  the  edge  of 
which  rested  a  single  star.  "So  shall  it  be  with  me,"  she 
murmured,  "  be  the  clouds  that  float  over  the  heavens 
of  my  soul  bright  or  dark,  the  star  of  holy  trust  shall 
linger  near,  ever  bringing  to  my  bosom — peace." 

About  two  years  after,  on  a  winter  evening,  there  was 
a  large  company  assembled  at  Mr.  Clinton's  dwelling. 
It  was  in  compliment  to  Alice,  for  that  day  completed 
her  twentieth  year.  As'  she  moved  from  one  spot  to 
another,  her  sweet  face  radiant  with  happiness,  Aunt 
Mary's  eyes  followed  her  with  a  devoted  expression, 
which  betrayed  that  the  lovely  being  was  her  dearest 
earthly  treasure.  The  merry  girl  was  now  a  glad- 
hearted,  but  thoughtful  woman.  An  innocent  mirthful- 
ness  lingered  around  her,  which  time  itself  would  never 
subdue,  except  for  a  brief  season,  when  her  sweet  laugh 
broke  out  with  a  natural,  rich  suddenness ;  there  was  a 
catching  joy  in  it,  that  could  not  be  withstood.  She 
was  the  gentle  hostess  to  perfection  ;  with  tact  enough 


22  AUNT   MARY. 

to  discover  congenial  spirits,  and  bring  them  together, 
finding  her  own  pleasure  in  the  cheerful  home  thus 
made.  She  possessed  the  rare  but  happy  art  of  making 
every  body  feel  perfectly  at  home,  one  knew  not  why. 
For  a  moment,  Alice  stood  alone  with  her  little  hand 
resting  upon  the  centre-table.  Behind  her,  two  rather 
fashionable  young  men  were  talking  and  laughing  some 
what  too  loud,  and  jesting  upon  sacred  things.  A  look 
of  pain  passed  over  the  face  of  the  fair  listener  as  she 
slowly  turned  round,  and  said  in  a  low  but  earnest  tone, 
"  Don't,  Theodore  !  Excuse  me,  but  such  trifling  pains 
me."  The  young  gentlemen  both  appeared  mortified. 
"Pardon  me!  Alice,"  exclaimed  Theodore  Temple,  "I 
will  try  to  break  that  habit  for  your  sake.  I  was  not 
aware  that  it  pained  you  so  much — a  lady's  word  is 
law  !"  and  he  bowed  gallantly. 

"  No,  no !  Base  your  giving  up  of  the  habit  upon 
principle,  then  it  will  be  permanent.  Much  obliged  for 
the  compliment" — Alice  bowed  with  assumed  dignity, 
and  her  sweet  face  dimpled  into  a  playful  smile,  "  but  I 
have  no  faith  in  these  pretty  speeches.  Remember,  now, 
I  have  your  promise  to  try  to  break  the  habit ;  you  will 
forfeit  your  word  if  you  do  not ;  so  you  see  your  posi 
tion,  don't  you  ?"  Thus  saying,  and  without  waiting  for 
a  reply,  the  young  lady  left  them. 

"  I  believe  Miss  Clinton  is  right,  after  all,"  remarked 
Temple's  companion.  "  What  is  the  use  of  jesting  on 
such  subjects  ?  We  never  feel  any  better  after  it,  and 
we  subject  ourselves  to  the  displeasure  of  those  who 
respect  these  things.  I  pass  my  word  to  give  it  up,  if 
you  will,  Temple." 


AUNT   MARY.  23 

"Agreed!"  was  Theodore's  brief  answer.  Without 
saying  how  mingled  the  motive  might  have  been,  which 
induced  the  young  men  to  forsake  the  habit,  they  did 
forsake  it  permanently.  Aunt  Mary's  lonely  life  was  at 
last  smiled  upon  by  a  sunbeam — and  that  sunbeam  was 
the  soul  of  Alice,  which  she  had  turned  to  the  light. 
For  that  cherished  being  Mary  Clinton  could  have 
offered  up  her  life,  and  there  would  have  been  a  joy  in 
the  sacrifice.  Strongly  and  nobly  were  their  hearts  knit 
together — beautiful  is  the  devotedness  of  holy,  unselfish 
love  !  Blest  are  two  frank  hearts,  which  may  be  opened 
to  each  other,  pouring  out  like  lava  the  tide  of  feeling 
hoarded  in  the  inward  soul — such  revelations  are  for 
moments  when  the  yearning  heart  will  not  be  hushed  to 
calmness.  But  "there  is  a  moonlight  in  human  life," 
and  there  is  also  a  blessing  in  that  subdued  hour  which 
whispers  wearily  to  the  loving  one,  of  weaknesses  and 
sins,  with  a  prayer  for  consoling  strength  to  triumph 
yet,  leaving  them  in  the  dust.  Thus  was  it  with  Mary 
and  Alice  Clinton ;  their  souls  were  open  as  the  day  to 
each  other.  They  travelled  along  life's  pathway  with 
earnest  purpose,  fulfilling  the  many  and  changing  duties 
that  fell  upon  them,  ever  catching  rich  gleams  of  joy 
from  above.  And  sorrows  came  too !  but  they  purified, 
and  taught  the  slumbering  soul  its  rarest  wealth — its 
deepest  sympathies  with  all  things  good  and  heavenly. 
It  seemed  a  slight  thing  that  took  away  the  desolation 
from  the  heart  of  Mary  Clinton — she  turned  away  from 
self,  and  devoted  her  efforts  to  the  eternal  happiness  of 
another.  Is  there  one  human  being  in  the  wide  world 
so  desolate,  that  he  may  not  do  likewise  ?  Only  a  mite 


24  TUE    DEAD 

may  be  cast  in,  but  God  has 'made  none  of  his  children 
BO  poor,  as  to  be  without  an  influence.  The  humblest 
effort,  if  it  is  all  that  can  be  made,  is  as  full  of  greatness 
it  the  core,  as  the  most  ostentatious  display. 


THE  DEAD. 

IT  is  strange  what  a  change  is  wrought  in  one  hour  by 
death.  The  moment  our  friend  is  gone  from  us  for  ever, 
what  sacredness  invests  him  !  Everything  he  ever  said 
or  did  seems  to  return  to  us  clothed  in  new  significance. 
A  thousand  yearnings  rise,  of  things  we  would  fain  say 
to  him — of  questions  unanswered,  and  now  unanswerable. 
All  he  wore  or  touched,  or  looked  upon  familiarly,  becomes 
sacred  as  relics.  Yesterday  these  were  homely  articles, 
to  be  tossed  to  and  fro,  handled  lightly,  given  away 
thoughtlessly — to-day  we  touch  them  softly,  our  tears 
drop  on  them ;  death  has  laid  his  hand  on  them,  and  they 
have  become  holy  in  our  eyes.  Those  are  sad  hours  when 
one  has  passed  from  our  doors  never  to  return,  and  we 
go  back  to  set  the  place  in  order.  There  the  room,  so 
familiar,  the  homely  belongings  of  their  daily  life,  each 
one  seems  to  say  to  us  in  its  turn,  "  Neither  shall  their 
place  know  them  any  more."  Clear  the  shelf  now  of 
vials,  and  cups,  and  prescriptions ;  open  the  windows ; 
step  no  more  carefully ;  there  is  no  one  now  to  be  cared 
for — no  one  to  be  nursed — no  one  to  be  awakened. 

Ah !  why  does  this  bring  a  secret  pang  with  it  when 


THE  DEAD.  25 

we  know  that  .they  are  where  none  shall  any  more  say, 
"  I  am  sick  !"  Could  only  one  flutter  of  their  immortal 
garments  be  visible  in  such  moments ;  could  their  face, 
glorious  with  the  light  of  heaven,  once  smile  on  the 
deserted  room,  it  might  be  better.  One  needs  to  lose 
friends  to  understand  one's  self  truly.  The  death  of  a 
friend  teaches  things  within  that  we  never  knew  before. 
We  may  have  expected  it,  prepared  for  it,  it  may  have 
been  hourly  expected  for  weeks ;  yet  when  it  comes,  it 
falls  on  us  suddenly,  and  reveals  in  us  emotions  we  could 
not  dream.  The  opening  of  those  heavenly  gates  for 
them  startles  and  flutters  our  souls  with  strange  myste 
rious  thrills,  unfelt  before.  The  glimpse  of  glories,  the 
sweep  of  voices,  all  startle  and  dazzle  us,  and  the  soul 
for  many  a  day  aches  and  longs  with  untold  longings. 

We  divide  among  ourselves  the  possessions  of  our  lost 
ones.  Each  well-known  thing  comes  to  us  with  an 
almost  supernatural  power.  The  book  we  once  read 
with  them,  the  old  Bible,  the  familiar  hymn ;  then  per 
haps  little  pet  articles  of  fancy,  made  dear  to  them  by 
some  peculiar  taste,  the  picture,  the  vase  ! — how  costly 
are  they  now  in  our  eyes. 

We  value  them  not  for  their  beauty  or  worth,  but  for 
the  frequency  with  which  we  have  seen  them  touched  or 
used  by  them ;  and  our  eye  runs  over  the  collection,  and 
perhaps  lights  most  lovingly  on  the  homeliest  thing  which 
may  have  been  oftenest  touched  or  worn  by  them. 

It  is  a  touching  ceremony  to  divide  among  a  circle  of 
friends  the  memorials  of  the  lost.  Each  one  comes  in 
scribed — "no  more;"  and  yet  each  one,  too,  is  a  pledge 
of  reunion.  But  there  are  invisible  relics  of  our  lost 


26  THE  DEAD. 

oi\es  more  precious  than  the  book,  the  picture,  or  the 
vase.  Let  us  treasure  them  in  our  hearts.  Let  us  bind 
to  our  hearts  the  patience  which  they  will  never  need 
again ;  the  fortitude  in  suffering  which  belonged  only  to 
this  suffering  state.  Let  us  take  from  their  dying  hand 
that  submission  under  affliction  which  they  shall  need 
no  more  in  a  world  where  affliction  is  unknown.  Let  us 
collect  in  our  thoughts  all  those  cheerful  and  hopeful 
sayings  which  they  threw  out  from  time  to  time  as  they 
walked  with  us,  and  string  them  as  a  rosary  to  be  daily 
counted  over.  Let  us  test  our  own  daily  life  by  what 
must  be  their  now  perfected  estimate  ;  and  as  they  once 
walked  with  us  on  earth,  let  us  walk  with  them  in  heaven. 
We  may  learn  at  the  grave  of  our  lost  ones  how  to  live 
with  the  living.  It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  live  so  carelessly 
as  we  often  do  with  those  dearest  to  us,  who  may  at  any 
moment  be  gone  for  ever.  The  life  we  are  living,  the 
words  we  are  now  saying,  will  all  be  lived  over  in  memory 
over  some  future  grave.  One  remarks  that  the  death 
of  a  child  often  makes  parents  tender  and  indulgent ! 
Ah,  it  is  a  lesson  learned  of  bitter  sorrow  !  If  we  would 
know  how  to  measure  our  work  to  living  friends,  let  us 
see  how  we  feel  towards  the  dead.  If  we  have  been 
neglectful,  if  we  have  spoken  hasty  and  unkind  words,  on 
which  death  has  put  his  inevitable  seal,  what  an  anguish 
is  that !  But  our  living  friends  may,  ere  we  know,  pass 
from  us ;  we  may  be  to-day  talking  with  those  whose 
names  to-morrow  are  to  be  written  among  the  dead  ;  the 
familiar  household  object  of  to-day  may  become  sacred 
relics  to-morrow.  Let  us  walk  softly ;  let  us  forbear  and 
love ;  none  ever  repented  of  too  much  love  to  a  departed 


DO  YOU  SUFFER  MORE  THAN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR  ?         27 

friend  ;  none  ever  regretted  too  much  tenderness  and  in 
dulgence,  but  many  a  tear  has  been  shed  for  too  much 
harshness  and  severity.  Let  our  friends  in  heaven  then 
teach  us  how  to  treat  our  friends  on  earth.  Thus  by  no 
vain  fruitless  sorrow,  but  by  a  deeper  self-knowledge,  a 
tenderer  and  more  sacred  estimate  of  life,  may  our  hea 
venly  friends  prove  to  us  ministering  spirits. 

The  triumphant  apostle  says  to  the  Christian,  "  All 
things  are  yours — Life  and  Death."  Let  us  not  lose 
either ;  let  us  make  Death  our  own ;  in  a  richer,  deeper, 
and  more  solemn  earnestness  of  life.  So  those  souls 
which  have  gone  from  our  ark,  and  seemed  lost  over 
the  gloomy  ocean  of  the  unknown,  shall  return  to  us, 
bearing  the  olive-leaves  of  Paradise. 


DO  YOU  SUFFER  MORE  THAN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR? 

"WHOSE  sorrow  is  like  unto  my  sorrow?" 

Such  is  the  language  of  the  stricken  soul,  such  the 
outbreak  of  feeling,  when  affliction  darkens  the  horizon 
of  man's  sunny  hopes,  and  dashes  the  full  cup  of  bless 
ings  suddenly  from  the  expectant  lips. 

"Console  me  not;  you  have  not  felt  this  pang,"  cries 
the  spirit  in  agony,  to  the  kind  friend  who  is  striving  to 
pour  the  balm  of  consolation  in  the  wounded  heart. 

"  But  I  have  known  worse,"  is  the  reply. 

"  Worse !  never,  never ;  no  one  could  suffer  more  keenly 
than  I  now  do,  and  live." 


28          DO  YOU  SUFFER  MORE  THAN  TOUR  NEIGHBOUR  ? 

In  vain  the  friend  reasons ;  sorrow  is  always  more  or 
less  selfish ;  it  absorbs  all  other  passions  ;  it  consecrates 
itself  to  tears  and  lamentations,  and  the  bereaved  one 
feels  alone ;  utterly  alone  in  the  world,  and  of  all  man 
kind  the  most  forsaken.  Every  heart  knoweth  its  own 
bitterness,  and  there  is  a  canker  spot  on  every  human 
plant  in  God's  garden.  Some  are  blighted  and  withered, 
ready  to  fall  from  the  stalk ;  others  are  blooming  while 
a  blight  is  at  the  root. 

What  right  have  you  to  say,  because  you  droop  and 
languish,  that  your  neighbour,  with  a  fair  exterior  and 
upright  mien,  is  all  that  his  appearance  indicates  ?  What 
evidence  have  you  that  because  you  suffer  from  want, 
and  your  neighbour  rides  in  his  carriage,  that  he  is,  there 
fore,  more  abundantly  blessed,  more  contentedly  happy 
than  you? 

As  you  walk  through  the  streets  of  costly  and  beautiful 
mansions,  you  feel  vaguely,  that,  associated  with  so  much 
of  beauty,  of  magnificence  and  ease,  there  must  be  abso 
lute  content,  enviable  freedom,  unmixed  pleasure,  and 
constant  happiness.  How  deplorably  mistaken.  Here, 
where  gold  and  crimson  drape  the  windows,  is  mortal 
sickness ;  there,  where  the  heavy  shutters  fold  over  the 
rich  plate  glass,  lies  shrouded  death.  Here,  is  blasted 
reputation,  there,  is  an  untold  and  hideous  grief.  Here, 
is  blighted  love,  striving  to  look  and  to  be  brave,  but 
with  a  bosom  corroded  and  full  of  bitterness ;  there  the 
sad  conduct  of  a  wayward  child.  Here  is  the  terrible 
neglect  of  an  unkind  and  perhaps  idolized  husband ;  there 
the  wilful  and  repeated  faults  of  an  unfaithful  wife.  Here 
is  dread  of  bankruptcy,  there  dread  of  dishonour  or  ex- 


DO  YOU  SUFFER  MOKE  THAW  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR?          29 

posure.  Here  is  bitter  hatred,  lacking  only  the  nerve 
to  prove  another  Cain.  There  silent  and  hidden  disease, 
working  its  skilful  fangs  about  the  heart,  while  it  pnints 
the  cheek  with  the  very  hue  of  health.  Here  is  undying 
remorse  in  the  breast  of  one  who  has  wronged  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless ;  there  the  suffering  being  the  victim 
of  foul  slander ;  here  is  imbecility,  there  smothered  re 
venge.  The  bride  and  the  belle,  both  so  seemingly 
blessed,  have  each  their  sacred  but  poignant  sorrow. 

Have  you  a  worse  grief  than  your  neighbour  ?  You 
think  you  have ;  you  are  poor  and  persecuted ;  he  is 
rich,  courted  and  followed ;  he  has  talents  that  have 
made  him  world-known ;  he  is  a  very  monarch  among 
men.  Ask  him  if  he  is  contented,  and  he  will  tell  you 
a  story  that  shall  cause  you  to  weep  like  a  child — about 
an  early  love — about  broken  promises,  and  a  seared 
heart,  a  heart  that  has  refused  to  entwine  itself  with  any 
other  since  she  proved  false.  Is  he  what  he  seems  ? 

Have  you  a  worse  grief  than  your  neighbonr  ?  You 
think  you  have  ;  you  have  buried  your  only  child — he 
has  laid  seven  in  the  tomb.  Seven  times  has  his  heart 
been  rent  open  ;  and  the  wounds  are  yet  fresh ;  he  has 
no  hope  to  sustain  him ;  he  is  a  miserable  man,  and  you 
are  a  Christian. 

Have  you  more  trouble  than  your  neighbour  ?  You 
have  lost  your  all — no,  no,  say  not  so ;  your  neighbour 
has  lost  houses  and  lands,  but  his  health  has  gone  also  ; 
and  while  you  are  robust,  he  lies  on  the  uneasy  pillow 
of  sickness,  and  watches  some  faithful  menial  prepare 
his  scanty  meal,  and  then  waits  till  a  trusty  hand  bears 
the  food  to  his  parched  lips. 


30          DO  YOU  SUFFER  MORE  THAN  YOUR  NEIGHBOUR? 

Do  you  suffer  more  than  your  neighbour  ?  True  ; 
Saturday  night  tests  your  poverty  ;  you  have  hut  money 
enough  for  the  bare  necessaries  of  life ;  your  children 
dress  meagerly,  and  your  house  is  scantily  furnished ; 
you  do  not  know  whether  or  not  work  will  be  forthcom 
ing  the  following  week.  Your  neighbour  sees  not,  nor  did 
he  ever  see,  want.  House,  wife  and  children  are  sump 
tuously  provided  for ;  his  barn  is  a  palace  to  your  kitchen. 
Step  into  his  parlour  and  look  at  him  for  a  moment; 
papers  surround  him,  blazing  Lehigh  floods  the  grate, 
velvet  carpets  yield  to  the  step;  luxurious  chairs  invite 
to  rest — check  the  sigh  of  envy ;  there  is  a  ring  at  the 
bell — hurrying  footsteps  on  the  stairs — a  jarring  sound 
against  the  polished  door,  and  in  bursts  the  rich  man's 
son,  his  brow  haggard,  his  eyes  fierce  and  red.  He  is  a 
notorious  profligate ;  gambling  is  his  food  and  olrink,  de 
bauchery  his  glory  and  his  ruin.  Would  you  be  that 
father  ?  Go  back  to  your  honest  sons  and  look  in  their 
faces ;  throw  the  bright  locks  from  their  brows,  and  bless 
God  that  there  the  angel  triumphs  over  the  brute ;  be 
even  thankful  that  you  are  not  burdened  with  corrupt 
gold,  for  their  sakes ;  say  not  again  that  you  suffer  more 
than  your  neighbour. 

Do  you  toil,  young  girl,  from  daylight  to  midnight, 
while  the  little  sums  eked  out  with  frowns  and  reluctant 
fingers,  hardly  suffice  to  provide  for  you  food  and  rai 
ment  ?  And  the  wife  of  your  rich  employer,  who  passes 
stranger-like  by  you,  may  sit  at  her  marble  toilet-table 
for  hours,  and  retouch  the  faded  brow  of  beauty  before 
a  gilded  mirror ;  may  lounge  at  her  palace  window  till 
she  is  weary  of  gazing,  and  being  gazed  at;  do  you 


L>0  YOU  tSUiTKK  MOKK  THAN  YOUR  NEIQHBOUtt  ?          tf  1 

envy  your  wealthier  neighbour,  young  sewing-girl  ?  Go 
to  her  boudoir,  where  pictures  and  statuary,  silken  hang 
ings  and  perfumes  delight  every  sense,  and  where  costly 
robes  are  flung  around  with  a  profusion  that  betokens 
lavish  expenditure ;  ask  her  which  she  deems  happiest, 
and  she  will  point  her  jewelled  finger  towards  you,  and — 
if  she  speaks  with  candour — tell  you  that  for  your  single 
soul  and  free  spirits,  she  would  barter  all  her  riches. 
The  opera,  where  night  after  night  the  wealth  of  glo 
rious  voices  is  flung  upon  the  air  till  its  every  vibration 
is  melody,  and  the  spirit  drinks  it  in  as  it  would  the  in 
cense  of  rare  flowers,  is  to  her  not  so  exquisite  a  luxury 
as  the  choice  songs,  warbled  in  a  concert  room,  to  which 
you  may  listen  but  few  times  in  the  year ;  such  pleasure 
palls  in  repetition,  on  the  common  mind,  for  nature's 
favourites  are  among  the  poor,  and  gold,  with  all  its 
magical  power,  can  never  attune  the  ear  to  music,  nor 
the  taste  to  an  appreciation  of  that  which  is  truly  beau 
tiful  in  nature  or  art.  Keep  then  your  integrity,  and 
you  never  need  envy  the  wife  of  your  employer.  A 
round  of  heartless  dissipation  has  sickened  her  of  human 
ity  ;  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  excitement  of  outshining 
her  compeers  in  the  ranks  of  fashion,  she  would  lay  down 
her  useless  life  to-morrow. 

Mothers,  worn  out  and  enfeebled  with  work,  labouring 
for  those  who,  however  good  they  may  be,  are  at  the 
best  unable  to  pay  you  for  your  unceasing  toil,  unable 
to  realize  your  great  sacrifices,  do  you  look  upon  your 
neighbour  who  has  more  means  and  a  few  petted  child 
ren,  and  wish  that  your  lot  was  like  hers  ?  You  pause 


32  WE  ARE  LED  BV  A  WAY  THAT  WE  KNOW  NOT. 

often  over  your  task,  and  think  it  greater  than  you  can 
bear. 

"  Tell  mothers,"  said  a  lady  to  us  a  short  time  since, 
"  who  have  their  little  ones  around  them,  that  they  are 
living  their  happiest  days  ;  and  the  time  will  come  when 
they  will  realize  it.  Tell  them  to  hend  in  thankfulness 
over  the  midnight  lamp,  to  smile  at  their  ceaseless  work 
and  call  it  pleasure.  I  can  but  kneel  :n  fancy  by  the 
distant  graves  of  my  children ;  they  are  all  gone.  Could 
I  but  have  them  beside  me  now,  I  would  delve  like  a 
slave  for  them ;  I  would  think  no  burden  too  hard,  no 
denial  beyond  my  strength,  if  I  might  but  labour  for 
their  good  and  be  rewarded  by  their  smiles  and  their  love." 

Then  in  whatever  situation  we  are,  we  should  remember 
that  even  but  a  door  from  our  own  dwelling  there  may 
be  anguish,  compared  with  which  ours  is  but  as  the  whis 
per  of  a  breath  to  the  roll  of  the  thunder.  We  do  not 
say  then,  let  us  console  ourselves  by  the  reflection  that 
there  are  always  those  in  the  world  who  suffer  keener 
afflictions  than  ourselves,  "  but  let  us  feel  that  though 
our  cup  of  sorrow  may  be  almost  full,  there  might  be 
added  many  a  drop  of  bitterness;"  and  never,  never 
should  we  breathe  the  expression,  "  there  is  no  sorrow 
like  unto  mine." 


WE  ARE  LED  BY  A  WAY  THAT  'WE  KNOW  NOT. 

WE  are  to  consider  the  facts  and  circumstances 'which 
confirm  the  doctrine  that  the  Lord's  providence  is  at  once 
universal  and  particular  ;  and  indeed  that  he  leads  us  by 
a  way  unknown  to  ourselves. 


WE  ARE  LED  BY  A  WAY  THAT  WE  KNOW  NOT.  83 

And  who  that  has  reflected  upon  his  own  life,  or  upon 
the  life  of  others,  or  upon  the  current  events  of  the 
day,  will  not  bear  witness  to  the  universal  application 
of  this  principle  ? 

Look  to  the  affairs  of  the  world,  to  the  nations  and 
governments  of  all  the  earth,  and  tell  me,  whore  is  any 
thing  turning  out  according  to  the  forethought  and  pru 
dence  of  man  ? 

Look  to  the  movements  of  our  own  country,  and  say 
whether  human  prudence  ever  devised  what  we  behold  ? 
What  party  or  what  individuals  have  ever,  in  the  long 
run,  brought  things  about  as  they  expected  ?  And  how 
is  it  in  our  own  city,  and  under  our  own  eyes  ? 

In  the  societies  of  the  church,  and  in  organizations  for 
church  extension,  the  same  rule  applies.  And  I  might 
ask,  where  does  it  not  apply  ?  I  might  give  examples. 
But  this  is  unnecessary,  when  they  are  so  numerous,  and 
so  fresh  in  the  memory  of  every  one. 

But  when  we  turn  to  the  experience  of  individuals, 
we  meet  with  the  most  unlimited  application  of  our  sub 
ject.  The  life  of  every  one  is  a  standing  memento  of 
its  truth.  For  who  is  there,  that  has  come  to  his  present 
stand-point  in  life,  by  the  route  that  he  had  marked  out 
for  himself?  I  will  imagine  that  ten,  fifteen,  or  twenty 
years  ago  each  one  of  you  fixed  on  your  plan  of  life,  for 
a  longer  or  shorter  period.  It  matters  not  what  the 
original  plan  was.  It  matters  not  what  prudence,  saga 
city,  and  forethought  were  employed  in  making  it.  It 
matters  not  how  much  money  and  power  have  come  to 
the  support  of  it.  Still  its  parts  have  never  been  filled 
up  as  you  originally  sketched  them. 


S4  WE  ABB  LED  BT  A  WAY  THAT  WE  KNOW  NOT. 

Many  particulars  were  altered  and  amended,  from  day 
to  day,  as  you  went  along.  Some  things  were  aban 
doned  as  useless ;  some  as  hopeless  ;  some  as  impossible ; 
some  as  injurious ;  some  things  were  neglected,  and  oth 
ers  forgotten.  An  unknown  hand  now  and  then  inter 
posed,  turning  the  tables  entirely.  An  unaccountable 
influence  was  found  operating  on  certain  individuals, 
changing  their  tone,  and  modifying  their  conduct.  An 
unknown  individual  has  come  alongside  of  you,  and  has 
become  your  friend.  He  has  mingled  his  emotions  and 
his  plans  with  yours.  You  have  modified  your  plans. 
He  has  changed  his.  Business  and  commerce  have  taken 
an  unexpected  turn.  You  are  the  gainer  or  the  loser, 
it  matters  not ;  your  plans  are  changed  by  the  event. 
An  intimate  friend  has  left  you  and  become  your  open 
enemy;  an  open  enemy  has  been  reconciled  and  has 
returned  to  the  affection  and  confidence  of  your  heart. 
Your  plans  in  life  have  to  be  changed  to  suit  such  events 
as  these.  Several  friends  and  relatives,  that  were  near 
to  you,  have  been  removed  into  the  spiritual  world.  It 
may  be  that  by  such  providences,  your  feelings,  thoughts, 
and  actions  have  been  changed — changed  utterly  and  for 
ever.  Darkness  of  mind,  gloominess  of  life,  and  anguish 
of  spirit  may  have  come  upon  you,  by  some  such  unex 
pected  providence,  and  thus  your  plans  may  have  been 
changed,  or  even  utterly  abandoned. 

But  beyond  matters  of  this  description,  which  are 
somewhat  external,  and  as  we  say  accidental,  and  cer 
tainly  incidental,  to  a  life  in  this  world,  and  in  all  of 
which  we  are  led  in  a  way  that  we  know  not ;  there  are 
unexpected  changes  of  another  kind,  that  we  all  have 


WE  ARE  LED  BY  A  WAT  THAT  WE  KNOW  NOT.  35 

experienced.  I  now  refer  to  changes  in  the  inner  man, 
and  in  the  inner  life. 

For  there  is  a  Divinity  within  us  that  shapes  our  ends, 
and  while  the  things  of  the  outward  life  remain  much 
the  same,  we  experience  changes  of  the  inner  life,  that 
are  at  times  amazing  and  terrible.  They  come  like  the 
swelling  of  the  tide,  and  like  the  beating  of  the  waves 
rolling  on  from  a  distant  ocean ;  the  deep  emotions  of 
the  soul  arise  and  swell  and  sweep  away ;  the  fire  of 
thought  is  kindled ;  the  imagination  paints  the  canvas ; 
the  tongue  stands  ready  to  utter  the  influx  of  love  and 
wisdom  ;  and  the  hand  to  illustrate  it. 

As  these  internal  states  of  the  soul  change,  by  con 
junction  with  the  Lord  and  communion  with  Heaven,-  on 
the  one  hand ;  or  by  opposition  to  God  and  alliance  with 
Hell,  on  the  other,  we  see  all  things  of  the  outward  world 
in  a  different  light. 

The  changes  of  our  internal  man  are,  to  appearance, 
much  more  directly  of  the  Lord's  Divine  Providence, 
than  the  events  of  the  outward  life.  Nevertheless,  the 
two  are  so  related  by  the  constitution  of  the  mind,  that 
each  individual  determines,  in  rationality  and  freedom, 
which  of  the  emotions  and  thoughts  of  the  inner  life,  he 
will  bring  forth  into  ultimate  acts  ;  and  it  is  here  that 
the  man  may  ally  himself  with  the  good  and  the  true  on 
one  hand,  or  with  the  evil  and  the  false  on  the  other ; 
and  in  this  manner  determine  his  destiny  for  heaven  or 
hell. 

The  practical  bearings  of  our  subjects  hinge  chiefly 
on  this ;  we  are  to  confide  in  the  Lord ;  lean  upon  his 
great  arm ;  and  look  to  Him,  with  the  assurance  that 


80  THE  IVY  IN  THB  DUNGEON. 

although  He  leads  us  by  a  way  that  we  know  not,  never 
theless  He  is  leading  us  aright ;  and  if  we  trust  to  Him, 
and  do  His  will,  He  will  finally  bring  us  to  heaven. 

Casting  our  eyes  from  one  extreme  of  the  Lord's  vast 
dominions  to  the  other,  we  find  the  same  Divine  Provi 
dence  everywhere  operating  and  operative.  The  angels 
of  heaven,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  are  continu 
ally  led  by  the  Lord  in  paths  that  they  have  not  known  ; 
darkness  is  made  light  before  them,  and  crooked  things 
straight.  Nevertheless  they  are  not  led  into  infinite 
good  nor  infinite  delight.  For  this  would  be  impossible. 
But  constantly  they  are  led  into  a  higher  degree  of  good 
than  they  would  natnrally  choose ;  and  they  are  defended 
from  evil  into  which  they  would  naturally  subside.  So 
also  it  is  with  us. 

Hence  we  may  rest  assured,  that  however  meagre  may 
be  the  good  we  experience,  it  is  vaster  by  far  than  we 
should  inherit,  if  we  had  been  permitted  to  carry  out 
our  own  plans  and  to  have  our  own  way  in  those  nume 
rous  particulars  in  which  we  have  been  frustrated  in  our 
plans  and  disappointed  in  our  hopes. 


THE  IVY  IN  THE  DUNGEON. 

THE  ivy  in  a  dungeon  grew, 
Unfed  by  rain,  uncheered  by  dew ; 
Its  pallid  leaflets  only  drank 
Cave-moistures  foul,  and  odours  dank. 

But  through  the  dungeon-grating  high 
There  fell  a  sunbeam  from  the  sky ; 

•1+-^ 


THB   IVY   IN    THE   DUNGEON.  87 

It  slept  upon  the  grateful  floor 
In  silent  gladness  evermore. 

The  ivy  felt  :i  tremor  shoot 
Through  all  its  fibres  to  the  root; 
It  felt  the  light,  it  saw  the  raj, 
It  strove  to  blossom  into  day. 

It  grew,  it  crept,  it  pushed,  it  clomb — 
Long  had  the  darkness  been  its  home  ; 
But  well  it  knew,  though  veiled  in  night, 
The  goodness  and  the  joy  of  light. 

Its  clinging  roots  grew  deep  and  strong; 
Its  stem  expanded  firm  and  long ; 
And  in  the  currents  of  the  air 
Its  tender  branches  flourished  fair. 

It  reached  the  beam — it  thrilled — it  curled- 
It  blessed  the  warmth  that  cheers  the  world; 
It  rose  towards  the  dungeon  bars — 
It  looked  upon  the  sun  jxnd  stars. 

It  felt  the  life  of  bursting  Spring, 
It  heard  the  happy  sky-lark  sing. 
It  caught  the  breath  of  morns  and  eves, 
And  wooed  the  swallow  to  its  leaves. 

By  rains,  and  dews,  and  sunshine  fed, 
Over  the  outer  wall  it  spread  ; 
And  in  the  day-beam  waving  free, 
It  grew  into  a  steadfast  tree. 

Upon  that  solitary  place, 
Its  verdure  threw  adorning  grace. 
The  mating  birds  became  its  guests, 
And  sang  its  praises  from  their  nests. 

Wouldst  know  the  moral  of  the  rhyme  ? 
Behold  the  heavenly  light!  and  climb. 
To  every  dungeon  comes  a  ray 
Of  God's  interminable  day. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  EDEN. 

ONE  day  little  Alice  hung  about  her  mother's  neck 
covering  her  cheeks  with  kisses,  and  saying,  in  her  pretty, 
childish  way, 

"  I  love  you,  you  nice,  sweet  mother !  YoHi  are  good — 
BO  good !"  But  her  mother  answered  earnestly, 

"  Dear  child,  God  is  good ;  if  I  have  any  good  it  is 
from  Him  ;  He  has  given  it  to  me ;  it  is  not  mine." 

Then  the  little  one  unclasped  her  caressing  arms,  and 
putting  back  her  hair  with  both  hands  gazed  with  a  look 
of  surprise  into  her  mother's  face. 

Presently  she  said — "  But  if  He  has  given  it  to  you, 
it  is  yours." 

"  No,  darling,"  replied  the  lady,  "  you  do  not  quite 
understand.  Listen.  Suppose  your  dear  father  had  a 
great  garden  full  of  all  most  beautiful  things  that  ever 
grew  in  gardens,  and  he  should  say  to  you — *  Come  and 
live  in  my  garden ;  you  shall  have  as  much  ground  as 
you  are  able  to  cultivate,  and  I  will  give  you  seeds  of 
all  fruits  and  flowers  you  love  best,  as  many  as  you  want. 
Here  no  evil  thing  can  ever  come  to  harm  you,  but  every 
day  you  will  grow  happier  and  stronger,  and  then  I  will 
give  you  more  ground  and  more  seeds,  and  you  shall 
live  with  me  for  ever !'  Suppose  you  were  so  glad  to 
hear  this  that  you  lost  no  time,  but  went  in,  at  once,  and 
began  to  plant  the  seeds  in  your  little  plot,  close  by  the 
gate — you  know  it  would  be  a  tiny  little  plot  at  first, 
because  you  are  small  and  weak  ;  and  soon  your  flowers 


THE   GARDEN   OS   EDEX,  89 

were  to  grow  up  and  bloom,  so  tall,  and  so  beautiful,  and 
your  trees  hang  heavy  with  such  delightful  fruit  that  every 
one  passing  by  would  exclaim, 

" '  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  garden !  Are  these  flowers  and 
fruit  trees  yours  ?' 

"  Would  you  not  say — 

"  *  Oh,  no !  they  are  not  mine ;  they  are  all  my  fath 
er's.  This  is  his  beautiful  garden,  but  he  said  if  I  were 
willing  I  might  stay  here  always,  and  I  have  come  to  live 
with  him  because  he  is  good.  Nothing  at  all  here  belongs 
to  me,  though  my  father  likes  me  to  give  away  the  fruits 
and  flowers  that  grow  in  my  plot  to  all  who  ask  for  them. 
I  am  a  great  deal  happier,  all  the  time,  when  I  think  that 
even  the  wild  flowers  in  this  grass,  and  the  small  berries, 
and  the  little  birds  that  eat  them,  belong  to  him,  than 
I  could  be  if  they  were  mine,  and  I  had  no  one  to  love 
for  them.' 

"  Should  you  not  feel,  dearest,  as  though  you  were 
telling  a  wicked  story,  and  almost  as  though  you  were 
stealing  something,  if  you  said,  'Yes,  they  are  all 
mine,'  so  that  the  people  would  not  even  know  you  had 
a  father  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  that  would  be  very  naughty  indeed.  1 
would  give  the  people  some  of  the  fruit  and  flowers,  and 
say  they  grew  on  my  father's  trees,  and  then  they  would 
love  him  too ;  but  tell  me  more  about  the  garden." 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  I  think  you  can  understand,  and 
you  must  be  attentive,  for  I  want  you  to  remember  it 
all  your  life.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  ?" 

"  Yes ;  that  is  where  Adam  and  Eve  lived." 

"  Well,  that's  the  beautiful  garden  I've  been  telling 


40  TAX   GARDEN    O*   EDEN. 

you  about,  and  God  is  your  good  father.  You  can  begin 
your  journey  there  this  very  day  if  you  like." 

"  Is  it  a  very  long  journey  ? — and  will  you  go  with 
me  ?  Is  there  really,  really  such  a  garden  ?  Oh,  tell 
me  where  it  is !" 

"  I  desire  nothing  in  the  world  so  much  as  to  lead  you 
there,  but  the  path  is  rough  and  steep ;  I  cannot  carry 
you  in  my  arms  along  that  road  ;  you  must  walk  on  your 
own  little  feet,  and  I  am  afraid  they  will  sometimes  get 
very  tired." 

"  You  know,  mother,  I  never  do  get  tired  when  I  am 
going  to  a  pleasant  place ;  but,  oh,  dear !  I  do  believe  now 
it  is  all  a  dream-story ;  you  smiled  and  kissed  me  just  as 
if  it  were." 

"  No,  you  need  not  look  so  disappointed,  little  one,  for 
though  it  is  something  like  a  '  dream-story,'  there  is 
nothing  in  the  world  half  so  true  and  real.  Think  in 
that  little  head  of  yours,  and  tell  me  what  seems  to  you 
most  like  this  beautiful  garden." 

"  I  cannot  think  of  anything  at  all  like  it,  except 
heaven. — Oh,  yes! — that  is  it!  Heaven,  is  it  not?" 

"  And  what  is  heaven  ?" 

"  The  place  where  good  people  go  when  they  die." 

"Think  again.     What  is  heaven ?" 

"  I  have  thought  again,  and  I  cannot  think  of  any 
thing  but  the  place  where  God  and  the  angels  are.  I 
do  not  know  how  you  want  me  to  think." 

"  I  want  you  to  think  why  it  is  heaven,  and  why  the 
angels  are  happy.  Do  you  understand  ?" 

"Yes.     Being  beautiful  and  so  pleasant  makes  it 


THE   GARDEN   OV    EDEH.  41 

heaven  ;  and  the  angels  are  happy  because  they  are  in 
heaven." 

"  Then,  of  course,  if  you  put  even  such  wicked  people 
into  a  beautiful  and  pleasant  place  they  would  be  angels, 
and  happy  ?" 

"  Oh,  now  I  see !  You  mean  the  angels  are  happy 
because  they  are  good." 

"  Why  should  that  make  them  happy?" 

"  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  know  the  Bible  says  so. 
I  suppose  just  the  same  as  when  you  promise  me,  in  the 
morning,  that  if  I  say  my  lessons  all  nicely  you  will  tell 
me  a  beautiful  fairy-tale  after  tea." 

"  No,  my  little  Alice,  not  exactly  in  that  way,  though 
at  first  thought  it  does  seem  to  be  so.  I  want  you  very 
much  indeed,  to  understand  the  truth  about  it,  but  I  am 
afraid  you  will  not  find  it  easy.  You  know  that  God  is 
good,  and  wise,  and  happy — ah,  dearest !  better,  wiser, 
happier  than  the  purest  angels  will  ever  know,  though 
they  go  on  learning  it  to  eternity.  When  I  say  to  you 
God  is  infinitely  good,  and  wise,  and  happy,  you  cannot 
understand  that,  and  neither  can  I ;  but  one  thing  about 
it  I  can  understand,  and  this  I  will  tell  you.  Just  as 
every  joyous  ray  of  light  and  heat  comes  to  us  from  the 
sun,  so  all  wisdom,  all  goodness,  all  beauty,  all  joy,  flow 
forth  from  God,  and  are  His,  alone.  Our  very  souls 
would  go  out  of  existence  like  the  flames  of  a  lamp 
when  the  oil  is  spent,  if,  for  the  least  fraction  of  a 
second,  He  ceased  to  give  us  life.  This  truth  that  I  am 
teaching  you  now  is  not  mine,  nor  yours ;  it  is  only  a 
tiny  stream  flowing  from  the  fountains  of  His  infinite 
wisdom,  and  would  be  the  truth,  all  the  same,  if  we  had 


£2  THE   GARDEN   OF   EDE.V 

never  been  born,  or  never  learned  to  see  it.  The  good 
and  joyous  feelings  in  your  heart,  to'o,  are  also  from 
God,  just  as  the  truth  is,  though  they  seem  to  you  more 
as  if  they  were  your  own.  You  must  never  think  of 
them  as  your  own,  never ;  but  thank  God  for  them 
very  gratefully  and  humbly,  for  they  are  His  fruits  that 
grow  in  the  garden  of  your  father,  the  Garden  of  Eden." 
"  Why  do  you  call  it  the  Garden  of  Eden  ?" 
"  Because,  by  the  Garden  of  Eden,  is  signified  the 
state  of  those  who  live  in  obedience  to  God  ;  and  by  the 
beauty  and  pleasantness  of  the  garden  we  are  taught 
that,  when  we  receive  goodness  and  truth  from  God,  we, 
at  the  same  time,  receive  happiness  from  Him,  because 
He  is  infinitely  happy,  as  well  as  infinitely  good,  and 
•when  His  spirit  fills  our  hearts,  we  are  happy  too.  Hap 
piness  comes  with  goodness,  just  as  the  flowers  and  songs 
of  birds  come  with  summer." 

"Then  are  all  good  people  happy?  I  thought  not." 
"  It  is  true,  there  are  many  trials  in  this  world,  but 
do  you  not  see  that  if  we  were  good  we  should  acknow 
ledge  that  God  sent  them  as  blessings,  and  should  be 
willing  to  accept  them  from  him,  and  should,  therefore, 
not  be  made  very  unhappy  by  them.  You  may  be  sure 
that  people  are  really,  in  their  heart  of  hearts,  happy 
exactly  in  proportion  as  they  are  good.  I  have  known 
persons  who  had  suffered  a  great  deal  in  many  ways, 
and  who  yet  said  that  nothing  had  been  so  bitter  to 
them  as  the  consciousness  of  their  own  sins.  Good 
people  see  a  thousand  things  to  love  and  enjoy  which 
the  wicked  world  find  no  pleasure  in ;  they  are  sure  to 
make  friends,  and,  what  is  far  better,  sure  to  love  and 


THE  GARDEN   OF  EDEN.  43 

do  good  to  all  about  them.  They  take  delight  in  every 
thing  beautiful  that  God  has  created.  They  think  of 
Him,  and  all  His  goodness,  and,  in  the  midst  of  sorrow, 
their  hearts  are  comforted,  and  filled  with  heavenly 
peace." 

"  Why  did  you  say  the  road  was  rough  and  long  to 
that  beautiful  garden  ? — is  it  so  very,  very  hard  to  be 
good? — and  does  it  take  so  very  long?" 

"  You  must  not  feel  sad  because  it  is  not  easy  to  be 
good  ;  you  must  think  of  it  bravely,  and  joyfully.  Why, 
my  Alice !  did  you  not  say  you  never  felt  tired  when 
you  were  going  to  a  pleasant  place  ?  It  is  not  always 
easy  to  do  right ;  sometimes  we  are  sorely  tempted, 
and  then  it  seems  very  difficult ;  but  what  of  that  ?  It 
is  possible,  always,  for  God  never  requires  of  us  what 
we  cannot  do.  When  you  feel  discouraged,  remember 
that  angels  in  heaven  were  little  children  once,  and 
that  some  of  them  found  it  as  hard  as  you  do  to  be 
good  and  true,  but  they  tried  over  and  over  again,  and 
are  blessed  angels  now.  They  love  to  acknowledge  that 
it  was  not  by  their  own  strength  they  overcame  evil, 
but  that  all  the  good  and  truth  and  happiness  they  have 
are  from  God.  He  does  not  love  you  less  than  He  did 
them,  for  His  love  is  infinite  to  all  His  children,  and  if 
you  are  willing  He  will  lead  you  also  into  His  Garden 
of  Eden." 


. 


HAVE  A  FLOWER  IX  YOUR  ROOM. 

A  FIRE  in  winter,  a  flower  in  summer !  If  you  can 
have  a  fine  print  or  picture  all  the  year  round,  so  much 
the  better ;  you  will  thus  always  have  a  bit  of  sunshine 
in  your  room,  whether  the  sky  be  clear  or  not.  But, 
above  all,  a  flower  in  summer  ! 

Most  people  have  yet  to  learn  the  true  enjoyment  of 
life ;  it  is  not  fine  dresses,  or  large  houses,  or  elegant 
furniture,  or  rich  wines,  or  gay  parties,  that  make  homes 
happy.  Really,  wealth  cannot  purchase  pleasures  of 
the  higher  sort ;  these  depend  not  on  money,  or  money's 
worth ;  it  is  the  heart,  and  taste,  and  intellect,  which 
determine  the  happiness  of  men ;  which  give  the  seeing 
eye  and  the  sentient  nature,  and  without  which,  man  is 
little  better  than  a  kind  of  walking  clothes-horse. 

A  snug  and  a  clean  home,  no  matter  how  tiny  it  be, 
so  that  it  be  wholesome ;  windows,  into  which  the  sun 
can  shine  cheerily ;  a  few  good  books  (and  who  need 
be  without  a  few  good  books  in  these  days  of  universal 
cheapness?) — no  duns  at  the  door,  and  the  cupboard 
well  supplied,  and  with  a  flower  in  your  room  ! — and 
there  is  none  so  poor  as  not  to  have  about  him  the  ele 
ments  of  pleasure. 

Hark !  there  is  a  child  passing  our  window  calling 
"wallflowers!"  We  must  have  a  bunch  forthwith ;  it 
is  only  a  penny !  A  shower  has  just  fallen,  the  pearly 
drops  are  still  hanging  upon  the  petals,  and  they  sparkle 
in  the  sun  which  has  again  come  out  in  his  beauty. 


HATE  A  FLOWER  IN   YOUR  ROOM.  45 

How  deliciously  the  flower  smells  of  country  and  na 
ture  !  It  is  like  summer  coming  into  our  room  to  greet 
us.  The  wallflowers  are  from  Kent,  and  only  last  night 
were  looking  up  to  the  stars  from  their  native  stems ; 
they  are  full  of  buds  yet,  with  their  promise  of  fresh 
beauty.  "  Betty !  bring  a  glass  of  clear  water  to  put 
these  flowers  in !"  and  so  we  set  to,  arranging  and  dis 
playing  our  pennyworth  to  the  best  advantage. 

But  what  do  you  say  to  a  nosegay  of  roses  ?  Here 
you  have  a  specimen  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  smiles 
of  Nature !  Who,  that  looks  on  one  of  these  bright 
full-blown  beauties,  will  say  that  she  is  sad,  or  sour,  or 
puritanical !  Nature  tells  us  to  be  happy,  to  be  glad, 
for  she  decks  herself  with  roses,  and  the  fields,  the 
skies,  the  hedgerows,  the  thickets,  the  green  lanes,  the 
dells,  the  mountains,  the  morning  and  evening  sky,  are 
robed  in  loveliness.  The  "laughing  flowers,"  exclaims 
the  poet !  but  there  is  more  than  gayety  in.  the  blooming 
flower,  though  it  takes  a  wise  man  to  see  its  full  signi 
ficance — there  is  the  beauty,  the  love,  and  the  adapta 
tion,  of  which  it  is  full.  Few  of  us,  however,  see  any 
more  deeply  in  this  respect  than  did  Peter  Bell : — 

"  A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim, 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 

What  would  we  think  or  say  of  one  who  had  invented 
flowers — supposing,  that  before  him,  flowers  were  things 
unknown ;  would  it  not  be  the  paradise  of  a  new  delight  ? 
should  we  not  hail  the  inventor  as  a  genius,  as  a  god  ? 
And  yet  these  lovely  offsprings  of  the  earth  have  been 


46  HAVE  A  FLOWER   IN   TOUR  ROOM. 

speaking  to  man  from  the  first  dawn  of  his  existence 
till  now,  telling  him  of  the  goodness  and  wisdom  of  the 
Creating  Power,  which  bade  the  earth  bring  forth,  not 
only  that  which  was  useful  as  food,  but  also  flowers,  the 
bright  consummate  flowers,  to  clothe  it  in  beauty  and 


See  that  graceful  fuchsia,  its  blood-red  petals,  and 
calyx  of  bluish-purple,  more  exquisite  in  colour  and 
form  than  any  hand  or  eyes,  no  matter  how  well  skilled 
and  trained,  can  imitate  !  We  can  manufacture  no 
colours  to  equal  those  of  our  flowers  in  their  bright 
brilliancy  —  such,  for  instance,  as  the  Scarlet  Lychnis, 
the  Browallia,  or  even  the  Common  Poppy.  Then  see 
the  exquisite  blue  of  the  humble  Speedwell,  and  the 
dazzling  white  of  the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  that  shines 
even  in  the  dark.  Bring  one  of  even  our  common  field- 
flowers  into  a  room,  place  it  on  your  table  or  chimney 
piece,  and  you  seem  to  have  brought  a  ray  of  sunshine 
into  the  place.  There  is  ever  cheerfulness  about  flowers  ; 
what  a  delight  are  they  to  the  drooping  invalid  !  the 
very  sight  of  them  is  cheering  ;  they  are  like  a  sweet 
draught  of  fresh  bliss,  coming  as  messengers  from  the 
country  without,  and  seeming  to  say  :  —  "  Come  and  see 
the  place  where  we  grow,  and  let  thy  heart  be  glad  in 
our  presence." 

What  can  be  more  innocent  than  flowers  !  Are  they 
not  like  children  undimmed  by  sin  ?  They  are  emblems 
of  purity  and  truth,  always  a  new  source  of  delight  to 
the  pure  and  the  innocent.  The  heart  that  does  not 
love  flowers,  or  the  voice  of  a  playful  child,  is  one  that 
we  should  not  like  to  consort  with.  It  was  a  beautiful 


HAVE   A   FLOWER  IN   YOTJR  BOOM.  47 

conceit  that  invented  a  language  of  flowers,  by  which 
lovers  were  enabled  to  express  the  feelings  that  they 
dared  not  openly  speak.  But  flowers  have  a  voice  to 
all, — to  old  and  young,  to  rich  and  poor,  if  they  would 
but  listen,  and  try  to  interpret  their  meaning.  "To 
me,"  says  Wordsworth, 

"  The  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

Have  a  flower  in  your  room  then,  by  all  means !  It 
will  cost  you  only  a  penny,  if  your  ambition  is  mode 
rate  ;  and  the  gratification  it  will  give  you  will  be 
beyond  all  price.  If  you  can  have  a  flower  for  your 
window,  so  much  the  better.  What  can  be  more  deli 
cious  than  the  sun's  light  streaming  through  flowers — 
through  the  midst  of  crimson  fuchsias  or  scarlet  gera 
niums?  Then  to  look  out  into  the  light  through  flowers 
— is  not  that  poetry?  And  to  break  the  force  of  the 
sunbeams  by  the  tender  resistance  of  green  leaves? 
If  you  can  train  a  nasturtium  round  the  window,  or 
some  sweet-peas,  then  you  have  the  most  beautiful 
frame  you  can  invent  for  the  picture  without,  whether 
it  be  the  busy  crowd,  or  a  distant  landscape,  or  trees 
with  their  lights  and  shades,  or  the  changes  of  the  pass-- 
ing  clouds.  Any  one  may  thus  look  through  flowers 
for  the  price  of  an  old  song.  And  what  a  pure  taste 
and  refinement  does  it  not  indicate  on  the  part  of  the 
cultivator ! 

A  flower  in  your  window  sweetens  the  air,  makes 
your  room  look  graceful,  gives  the  sun's  light  a  new 
charm,  rejoices  your  eye,  and  links  you  to  nature  and 


48  HAVE  A  FLOWER  IN   TOUR  ROOM. 

beauty.  You  really  cannot  be  altogether  alone,  if  you 
have  a  sweet  flower  to  look  upon,  and  it  is  a  companion 
which  will  never  utter  a  cross  thing  to  anybody,  but 
always  look  beautiful  and  smiling.  Do  not  despise  it 
because  it  is  cheap,  and  everybody  may  have  the  luxury 
as  well  as  you.  Common  things  are  cheap,  and  com 
mon  things  are  invariably  the  most  valuable.  Could 
we  only  have  a  fresh  air  or  sunshine  by  purchase,  what 
luxuries  these  would  be ;  but  they  are  free  to  all,  and 
we  think  not  of  their  blessings. 

There  is,  indeed,  much  in  nature  that  we  do  not  yet 
half  enjoy,  because  we  shut  our  avenues  of  sensation 
and  of  feeling.  We  are  satisfied  with  the  matter  of 
fact,  and  look  not  for  the  spirit  of  fact,  which  is  above 
all.  If  we  would  open  our  minds  to  enjoyment,  we 
should  find  tranquil  pleasures  spread  about  us  on  every 
side.  We  might  live  with  the  angels  that  visit  us  on 
every  sunbeam,  and  sit  with  the  fairies  who  wait  on 
every  flower.  We  want  some  loving  knowledge  to  en 
able  us  truly  to  enjoy  life,  and  we  require  to  cultivate 
a  little  more  than  we  do  the  art  of  making  the  most  of 
the  common  means  and  appliances  for  enjoyment,  which 
lie  about  us  on  every  side.  There  are,  we  doubt  not, 
many  who  may  read  these  pages,  who  can  enter  into 
and  appreciate  the  spirit  of  all  that  we  have  now  said ; 
and,  to  those  who  may  still  hesitate,  we  would  say — 
begin  and  experiment  forthwith ;  and  first  of  all.  when 
the  next  flower-girl  comes  along  your  street,  at  once 
hail  her,  and  "  Have  a  flower  for  your  room  !" 


' 


WEALTH. 

THE  error  of  life  into  which  man  most  readily  falls, 
is  the  pursuit  of  wealth  as  the  highest  good  of  existence. 
While  riches  command  respect,  win  position,  and  secure 
comfort,  it  is  expected  that  they  will  be  regarded  by 
all  classes  only  with  a  strong  and  unsatisfied  desire. 
But  the  undue  reverence  which  is  everywhere  manifested 
for  wealth,  the  rank  which  is  conceded  it,  the  homage 
which  is  paid  it,  the  perpetual  worship  which  is  offered 
it,  all  tend  to  magnify  its  desirableness,  and  awaken 
longings  for  its  possession  in  the  minds  of  those  born 
without  inheritance.  In  society,  as  at  present  observed, 
the  acquisition  of  money  would  seem  to  be  the  height 
of  human  aim — the  great  object  of  living,  to  which  all 
other  purposes  are  made  subordinate.  Money,  which 
exalts  the  lowly,  and  sheds  honour  upon  the  exalted — 
money,  which  makes  sin  appear  goodness,  and  gives  to 
viciousness  the  seeming  of  chastity— money,  which  si 
lences  evil  report,  and  opens  wide  the  mouth  of  praise 
— money,  which  constitutes  its  possessor  an  oracle,  to 
whom  men  listen  with  deference — money,  which  makes 
deformity  beautiful,  and  sanctifies  crime — money,  which 
lets  the  guilty  go  unpunished,  and  wins  forgiveness  for 
wrong — money,  which  makes  manhood  and  age  respect 
able,  and  is  commendation,  surety,  and  good  name  for 
the  young, — how  shall  it  be  gained  ?  by  what  schemes 
gathered  in  ?  by  what  sacrifice  secured  ?  These  are  the 
questions  which  absorb  the  mind,  the  practical  answer- 
4 


50  WEALTH. 

ings  of  which  engross  the  life  of  men.  The  schemes 
are  too  often  those  of  fraud,  and  outrage  upon  the  sacred 
obligations  of  being ;  the  sacrifice,  loss  of  the  highest 
moral  sense,  the  destruction  of  the  purest  susceptibilities 
of  nature,  the  neglect  of  internal  life  and  development, 
the  utter  and  sad  perversion  of  the  true  purposes  of 
existence.  Money  is  valued  beyond  its  worth — it  has 
gained  a  power  vastly  above  its  deserving.  Wealth  is 
courted  so  obsequiously,  is  flattered  so  servilely,  is  so 
influential  in  moulding  opinions  and  judgment,  has  such 
a  weight  in  the  estimation  of  character,  that  men  regard 
its  acquisition  as  the  most  prudent  aim  of  their  endea 
vours,  and  its  possession  as  absolute  enjoyment  and 
honour,  rather  than  the  means  of  honourable,  useful, 
and  happy  life.  While  riches  are  thus  over-estimated, 
and  hold  such  power  in  the  community,  men  will  forego 
ease  and  endure  toil,  sacrifice  social  pleasures  and  aban 
don  principle,  for  the  speedy  and  unlimited  acquirement 
of  property.  Money  will  not  be  regarded  as  the  means 
of  living,  but  as  the  object  of  life.  All  nobler  ends 
will  be  neglected  in  the  eager  haste  to  be  rich.  No 
higher  pursuit  will  be  recognised  than  the  pursuit  of 
gold — no  attainment  deemed  so  desirable  as  the  attain 
ment  of  wealth.  While  the  great  man  of  every  circle 
is  the  rich  man,  in  the  common  mind  wealth  becomes 
the  synonyme  of  greatness.  No  condition  is  discern- 
able  superior  to  that  which  money  confers ;  no  loftier 
idea  of  manhood  is  entertained  than  that  which  embraces 
the  extent  of  one's  possessions. 

There  is  a  wealth  of  heart  better  than  gold,  and  an 
interior  decoration  fairer   than    outward   ornament. — 


HOW   TO   BE    HAPPY.  51 

There  is  a  splendour  in  upright  life,  beside  which  gems 
are  lustreless ;  and  a  fineness  of  spirit  whose  beauty 
outvies  the  glitter  of  diamonds.  Man's  true  riches  are 
hidden  in  his  nature,  and  in  their  development  and 
increase  will  he  find  his  surest  happiness. 


HOW  TO  BE  HAPPY. 

OLD  Mr.  Cleveland  sat  by  his  comfortable  fireside  one 
cold  winter's  night.  He  was  a  widower,  and  lived  alone 
on  his  plantation ;  that  is  to  say,  he  was  the  only  white 
person  there ;  for  of  negroes,  both  field  hands  and  house 
servants,  he  had  enough  and  to  spare.  He  was  a  queer 
old  man,  this  Mr.  Cleveland ;  a  man  of  kind,  good  feel 
ings,  but  of  eccentric  impulses,  and  blunt  and  startling 
manners.  You  must  always  let  him  do  everything  in  his 
own  odd  way ;  just  attempt  to  dictate  to  him,  or  even  to 
suggest  a  certain  course,  and  you  would  be  sure  to  defeat 
your  wisest  designs.  He  seemed  at  times  possessed  by 
a  spirit  of  opposition,  and  would  often  turn  right  round 
and  oppose  a  course  he  had  just  been  vehemently  advo 
cating,  only  because  some  one  else  had  ventured  openly 
and  warmly  to  approve  it. 

The  night,  as  I  have  said,  was  bitter  cold,  and  would 
have  done  honour  to  a  northern  latitude,  and  in  addition 
to  this,  a  violent  storm  was  coming  on.  The  wind  blew 
in  fitful  gusts,  howling  and  sighing  among  the  huge  trees 
with  which  the  house  was  surrounded,  and  then  dying 
away  with  a  melancholy,  dirge-like  moan.  The  old 


52  HOW   TO    BE    HAPPY. 

trees  rubbed  their  leafless  branches  against  the  window 
panes,  and  the  fowls  which  had  roosted  there  for  the  night, 
were  fain  to  clap  their  wings,  and  make  prodigious  efforts 
to  preserve  their  equilibrium.  Mr.  Cleveland  grew  moody 
and  restless,  threw  down  the  book  in  which  he  had  been 
reading,  kicked  one  of  the  andirons  till  he  made  the  whole 
blazing  fabric  tumble  down,  and  finally  called,  in  an  im 
patient  tone,  his  boy  Tom. 

Tom  soon  popped  his  head  in  at  the  door,  and  said, 
"  Yer's  me,  sir." 

"  Yer's  me,  indeed  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cleveland,  "  what 
sort  of  a  way  is  this  to  build  a  fire  ?" 

"  I  rispec  you  is  bin  kick  um,  sir,"  said  Tom. 

"  Hey  ?  What  ?  Well !  suppose  I  did  bin  kick  um, 
if  it  had  been  properly  made,  it  would  not  have  tumbled 
down.  Fix  it  this  minute,  sir  !" 

"  I  is  gwine  to  fix  um  now,  sir,"  said  Tom,  fumbling 
at  the  fire. 

"  Well !  fix  it,  sir,  without  having  so  much  to  say  about 
it ;  you  had  better  do  more,  and  say  less,"  said  Mr. 
Cleveland. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Tom. 

"  You  will  keep  answering  me  when  there  is  no  occa 
sion  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cleveland ;  "  I  just  wish  I  had  my 
stick  here,  I'd  crack  the  side  of  your  head  with  it." 

"Yer's  de  stick,  sir,"  said  Tom,  handing  the  walking 
cane  out  of  the  corner. 

"Put  it  down,  this  instant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Cleveland; 
"  how  dare  you  touch  my  stick  without  my  leave  ?" 

"  I  bin  tink  you  bin  say  you  bin  want  um,  sir,"  said 
Tom. 


HOW   TO    BE   HAPPY.  53 

"  You  had  better  tink  about  your  work,  sir,  and  stop 
answering  me,  sir,  or  I'll  find  a  way  to  make  you,"  said 
Mr.  Cleveland.  "  Bring  in  some  more  light  wood,  and 
make  the  fire,  and  shut  in  the  window  shutters.  Do  you 
hear  me,  sir?"  ^ 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Tom. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  answer,  if  you  hear,  then  ? 
How  am  I  to  know  when  you  hear  me,  if  you  don't 
answer?"  said  Mr.  Cleveland. 

"  I  bin  tink  you  bin  tell  me  for  no  answer  you,  sir," 
said  Tom. 

"  I  said  when  there  was  no  occasion,  boy ;  that's  what 
I  said,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cleveland,  reaching  for  his  stick. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Tom,  as  he  went  grinning  out  of  the 
room. 

Mr.  Cleveland  was,  in  the  main,  a  very  kind  master, 
though  somewhat  hasty  and  impatient.  Tom  and  he 
were  for  ever  sparring,  yet  neither  could  have  done  with 
out  the  other ;  and  there  was  something  comical  about 
Tom's  disposition  which  well  suited  his  master's  eccentric 
and  changeable  moods.  Tom  evidently  served  as  a  kind 
of  safety  valve  for  his  master's  nervous  system,  and 
many  an  explosion  of  superfluous  excitability  he  had  to 
bear. 

On  the  night  in  question,  Mr.  Cleveland  was  particu 
larly  out  of  sorts.  The  truth  is,  he  was  naturally  a 
generous,  warm-hearted  man,  but  in  consequence  of  early 
disappointment,  had  lived  a  solitary  life,  and  was  really 
suffering  for  the  want  of  objects  of  affection.  His  feel 
ings,  unsatisfied,  unemployed,  yet  morbidly  sensitive, 


54  HOW   TO    BK    HAPPY. 

were  becoming  soured,  and  his  untenanted  heart  often 
ached  for  want  of  sympathy. 

He  rose  and  took  several  diagonal  turns  across  the 
room.  At  length  he  opened  a  window,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  stowny  night.  "  What  confounded  weather !" 
he  muttered  to  himself,  "  it  makes  a  man  feel  like  blow 
ing  his  brains  out !  There  are  no  two  ways  about  it, 
I'm  tired  of  life.  What  have  I  to  live  for  ?  If  I  were 
to  die  to-morrow,  who  would  shed  a  tear?" 

Then  whispered  conscience,  "  It  is  thine  own  fault.  A 
man  need  not  feel  alone  because  there  are  none  in  the 
world  who  bear  his  name,  or  share  his  blood.  All  men 
are  thy  brethren.  Thou  art  one  of  the  great  human 
family,  and  what  hast  thou  done  to  relieve  the  poor  and 
suffering  around  thee  ?  Will  not  thy  Master  say  to  thee 
at  the  last  day,  '  I  was  an  hungered,  and  you  gave  me 
no  meat ;  I  was  thirsty,  and  you  gave  me  no  drink ;  I 
was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  not  in  ;  naked,  and  you 
clothed  me  not ;  sick,  and  in  prison,  and  you  visited  me 
not.  Inasmuch  as  you  did  it  not  to  one  of  the  least  of 
these  my  brethren,  you  did  it  not  to  me.' ' 

This  was  a  strong  and  direct  appeal,  and  it  was  not 
without  its  effect.  Then  muttered  Mr.  Cleveland  to  him 
self  again,  "  Well,  how  can  I  help  it  ?  It  has  not  been 
for  want  of  inclination.  Heaven  knows  I  am  always 
ready  to  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket  whenever  people 
call  on  me  for  charity.  How  can  I  help  it  if  the  pooi 
and  suffering  do  not  make  their  wants  known  to  me  ?" 

Then  again  spake  Conscience :  "  Thou  art  trying  to 
deceive  thyself,  but  thou  canst  not  deceive  nor  silence 
me.  Thou  hast  known  of  the  existence  of  suffering,  and 


HOW   TO   BE   HAPPY.  55 

thine  indolence  has  prevented  thee  from  going  abroad  to 
relieve  it.  Did  thy  Master  thus  ?  Did  he  not  go  about 
to  do  good  ?  Did  he  not  sit  down  to  meat  with  publicans 
and  sinners  ?  Can  you  stand  here,  and  look  out  upon 
such  a  night  as  this,  and  not  think  of  those  who  are  ex 
posed  to  its  bitterness  ?  Can  thy  human  heart  beat  only 
for  itself  when  thou  thinkest  of  the  thousand  miseries 
crying  to  Heaven  for  relief?  Resolve,  now,  before  thy 
head  touches  its  comfortable  pillow,  that  with  the  morn 
ing's  dawn  thou  wilt  resolutely  set  about  thy  work  ;  or, 
rather,  thy  Master's  work." 

"  It  is  very  hard,"  still  muttered  Mr.  Cleveland  to 
himself,  "'that  these  thoughts  will  continually  intrude 
themselves  upon  me.  They  give  me  no  peace  of  my 
life.  Stifle  them  as  I  may,  they  come  with  tenfold  force. 
People  have  no  business  to  be  poor.  I  was  poor  once, 
and  nobody  gave  charity  to  me.  I  had  to  help  myself 
up  in  the  world  as  well  as  I  could.  I  hate  poor  people ; 
I  hate  unfortunate  people  ;  in  fact,  confound  it !  I  hate 
the  world  and  everybody  in  it." 

Then  answered  once  again  the  still,  small  voice :  "  For 
shame,  Mr.  Cleveland,  for  shame !  You  will  ruin  your 
soul  if  you  thus  darken  the  light  within.  You  know 
better  than  all  this,  and  you  are  sinning  against  yourself. 
You  want  to  be  happy ;  well,  you  may  be  so.  There  is 
A  wide  field  of  duty  open  before  you ;  enter,  in  God's 
name,  and  go  to  work  like  a  man.  What  you  say  about 
having  helped  yourself,  is  perfectly  true,  and  you  deserve 
all  credit  for  it.  But  remember  that  the  majority  of 
the  poor  are  entirely  destitute  of  your  advantages.  You 
had  the  foundation  rightly  laid.  A  thousand  circum- 


Ob  HOW   TO   BE   HAPPY. 

stances  in  your  early  life  conspired  to  render  you  ener 
getic  and  self-relying.  You  had  the  right  sort  of  educa 
tion,  and  Providence  also  helped  to  train  you.  Besides, 
once  more  I  ask  you,  did  your  Master  stop  to  inquire 
how  human  misery  was  brought  about  before  he  relieved 
it  ?  Away  with  this  unmanly,  selfish  policy !  Follow 
thy  generous  impulses,  follow  out  the  yearnings  of  thy 
heart,  without  which  you  never  can  have  peace ;  above 
all,  follow  Christ." 

Mr.  Cleveland  shut  the  window,  heaved  a  deep  sigh, 
and  took  several  more  turns  across  the  room.  "I  be 
lieve  it  is  all  true,"  at  length  he  said,  "  and  I  have  been 
a  confounded  fool.  I'll  turn  about,  and  lead  a  different 
life,  so  help  me  Heaven  !  I  have  wealth,  and  not  a  chick 
nor  a  child  to  spend  it  on,  nor  to  leave  it  to  when  I  die, 
and  so  I'll  spend  it  in  doing  good,  if  I  can  only  find  out 
the  best  way ;  that's  the  trouble.  But  never  mind,  I'll 
be  my  own  executor."  He  now  rang  the  bell  for  Tom. 

Tom  immediately  appeared,  with  his  usual  "  Yer's  me, 
sir." 

. "  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Cleveland,  "  put  me  in  mind  in  the 
morning,  to  send  a  load  of  wood  to  old  Mrs.  Peters." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Tom,  "  an'  you  better  sen'  some  ba 
con,  'cause  I  bin  yerry  (hear)  little  Mas  Jack  Peter 
say  him  ain't  bin  hab  no  meat  for  eat  sence  I  do'  know 
de  day  when.  I  rispec  dey  drudder  hab  de  meat  sted  o' 
de  wood,  'cause  dey  can  pick  up  wood  nuf  all  about." 

"  You  mind  your  own  business,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Cleve 
land,  "  I'll  send  just  what  I  please.  How  long  is  it  since 
I  came  to  you  for  advice?  Confound  the  fellow!"  he 
muttered  aside,  "I  meant  to  send  the  woman  some  meat, 


HOW   TO   BE   HAPPY.  57 

and  now  if  I  do  it,  that  impudent  fellow  will  think  I  do 
it  because  he  advised  it.  Any  how,  I'll  not  send  bacon, 
I'll  send  beef  or  mutton." 

Just  at  this  moment,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  Tom,  going  to  open  it,  admitted  Dick,  the  coachman. 

"  What  do  you  want,  Dick,  at  this  time  of  night  ?"  in 
quired  his  master. 

"Dere's  a  man  down  stays,  sir,"  replied  Dick,  "and 
he  seem  to  be  in  great  'fliction.  He  says  dey  is  campin' 
out  'bout  half  a  mile  below,  sir,  and  de  trees  is  fallin'  so 
bad  he  is  'fraid  dey  will  all  be  killed.  He  ask  you  if 
you  kin  let  dem  stay  in  one  of  de  out-houses  tell  to 
morrow." 

"  Camping  out  such  a  night  as  this?"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Cleveland,  "  the  Lord  have  pity  on  them !  How  many 
are  there  of  them,  Dick  ?" 

"  He,  an'  his  wife,  and  six  little  children,  sir,"  answered 
Dick. 

"No  negroes?"  inquired  his  master. 

"Not  a  nigger,  sir,"  said  Dick.  "I  ain't  like  poor 
buckrah,  no  how,  sir,  but  I  'spect  you  best  take  dese 
people  in,  lest  dey  might  die  right  in  our  woods." 

Tom,  knowing  his  master's  dislike  of  advice,  and  fear 
ing  that  Dick  had  taken  the  surest  method  to  shut  them 
out,  now  chimed  in,  and  said,  "  Massa,  ef  I  bin  you,  I 
no  would  tek  dem  in  none  't  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cleveland ; 
"  you  surely  must  be  taking  leave  of  your  senses.  Dick, 
you'll  have  to  give  that  boy  of  yours  a  thrashing.  I'll 
not  stand  his  insolence  much  longer.  Don't  stand  there, 
grinning  at  me,  sir." 


58  HOW  TO   BE  HAPPY. 

"  No,  sir,"  snickered  Tom,  skulking  behind  Dick,  who 
was  his  father. 

"Let  the  man  come  up  here,  Dick,"  said  Mr.  Cleve 
land. 

When  the  traveller  made  his  appearance,  Mr.  Cleve 
land  was  startled  at  his  wan  and  wo-begone  appearance. 
"  Sit  down,  my  man,"  said  he. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger,/'  but  I  must 
be  back  as  soon  as  possible  to  my  family.  Can  you 
grant  us  a  night's  lodging,  sir?" 

"Certainly,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Cleveland;  "  have  you 
any  means  of  getting  your  family  hither  ?  I  am  told 
you  have  six  little  ones." 

"  They  must  walk,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  for 
our  only  horse  has  been  killed  by  a  falling  tree ;  but  I 
have  not  a  word  to  say.  It  might  have  been  my  wife  or 
one  of  my  little  ones,  and,  poor  as  I  am,  I  can  spare  none 
of  them." 

Mr.  Cleveland,  whose  feelings  were  at  this  time  in  an 
usually  softened  state,  got  up,  and  walked  rapidly  to  the 
book-case  to  conceal  his  emotion,  dashed  away  a  tear, 
and  muttered  to  himself,  as  was  his  wont,  "  'Tis  con 
foundedly  affecting,  that's  a  fact."  Then  turning  to 
the  stranger,  who  was  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  room, 
he  said,  "  If  you  will  wait  a  few  moments  I  will  have  my 
carriage  got;  your  wife  and  little  ones  must  not  walk 
on  such  a  night  as  this." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir !"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  trembling 
voice  ;  "  but  I  am  too  uneasy  to  stay  a  moment  longer." 

"Well,  go  on,"  said  Mr.  Cleveland,  "  and  the  carriage 
shall  come  after  you,  and  I  will  go  in  it  myself."  The 


HOW   TO   BE   HAPPY.  59 

stranger  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  left  the 
room  without  speaking  a  word ;  while  Dick  and  Tom  ex 
changed  glances  of  surprise  at  their  master's  uncommon 
fit  of  philanthropy  ;  Tom  feeling  fully  assured  that  the 
"  poor  buckrahs,"  as  he  termed  them,  owed  their  good 
fortune  to  his  seasonable  interference. 

The  carriage  was  soon  in  readiness,  and  Mr.  Cleveland 
rode  in  it  to  the  spot.  He  found  the  family  all  gathered 
around  the  dead  horse,  and  lamenting  over  it ;  while  the 
father,  having  just  arrived,  was  expatiating  upon  his  kind 
reception  by  Mr.  Cleveland.  It  took  them  some  little 
time  to  stow  themselves  away  in  the  carriage,  and  Mr. 
Cleveland  actually  carried  two  sturdy  children  on  his 
knees.  Yes,  there  he  was,  riding  through  the  dreadful 
storm,  in  danger  every  moment  from  the  trees  which 
were  falling  all  around  him,  with  an  infant  in  its  mother's 
arms  squalling  with  all  its  might,  and  a  heavy  boy  on 
each  knee,  and  squeezed  almost  to  death  into  the  bar 
gain — for  there  were  nine  in  the  carriage — and  yet  feeling 
so  happy !  ay,  far  happier  than  he  had  felt  for  many  a 
long  day.  Truly,  charity  brings  its  own  reward. 

When  they  arrived  at  Mr.  Cleveland's  house,  instead 
of  being  stowed  away  in  an  out-building,  as  the  poor 
man  had  modestly  requested,  they  were  comfortably  pro 
vided  for  beneath  his  own  roof.  That  night,  as  he  laid 
his  head  upon  his  pillow,  he  could  not  help  feeling  sur 
prised  at  his  sudden  accession  of  happiness.  "  Well,  I 
will  go  on,"  he  soliloquized ;  "I  will  pursue  the  path  I 
have  this  night  taken,  and  if  I  always  feel  as  I  do  now, 
I  am  a  new  man,  and  will  never  again  talk  about  blow 
ing  my  brains  out."  He  slept  that  night  the  sleep  of 


60  HOW  TO  BE   HAPPY. 

peace,  and  rose  in  the  morning  with  a  light  heart  and 
buoyant  spirits. 

His  first  care  was  to  take  the  father  of  the  family 
aside,  and  gather  from  him  the  story  of  his  misfortunes 
It  was  a  long  and  mournful  tale,  and  Mr.  Cleveland  was 
obliged,  more  than  once,  to  pretend  a  sudden  call  out  of 
the  room,  that  he  might  hide  his  emotion.  And  the  tale 
was  by  no  means  told  in  vain.  True  to  his  new  resolu 
tions,  Mr.  Cleveland  thankfully  accepted  the  work  which 
Providence  had  given  him  to  do,  and  the  family  of  emi 
grants,  to  this  day,  mention  the  name  of  Cleveland  with 
tears  of  gratitude  and  love,  and,  when  they  implore 
God's  mercy  for  themselves,  never  forget  to  invoke,  for 
their  kind  benefactor,  Heaven's  choicest  blessings.  Nor 
is  that  the  only  family  whose  hearts  glow  at  the  mention 
of  Mr.  Cleveland's  name.  Far  and  wide  his  name  is 
known,  and  honoured,  and  beloved. 

And  Mr.  Cleveland  has  found  out  the  real  secret  of 
happiness.  It  is  true  that  he  and  Tom  still  have  their 
squabbles,  for  Tom  is  really  a  provoking  fellow,  and  Mr. 
Cleveland  is,  and  always  will  be,  an  eccentric,  impulsive 
man,  but  his  heart,  which,  when  we  first  introduced  him 
to  our  readers,  was  far  from  being  right  with  God,  or 
with  his  fellow-men,  is  now  the  dwelling-place  of  love 
and  kindness,  and  the  experience  of  every  day  contri 
butes  to  strengthen  the  new  principles  he  has  imbib',d, 
and  to  confirm  him  in  the  right. 

Reader !  art  thou  sad  or  solitary  ?  I  can  offer  thee 
a  certain  cure  for  all  thy  woes.  Contemplate  the  life 
of  Him  who  spake  as  never  man  spake.  Follow  him 
through  all  those  years  of  toil  and  suffering.  See  him 


REBECCA. 


wherever  called  by  the  sorrows  of  his  human  brethren, 
and  witness  his  deeds  of  mercy  and  his  offices  of  love, 
and  then — "  go  thou  and  do  likewise." 


REBECCA. 

HER  words  were  few,  without  pretence 
To  tricks  of  courtly  eloquence, 
But  full  of  pure  and  simple  thought, 
And  with  a  guileless  feeling  fraught, 
And  said  in  accents  which  conferred 
Poetic  charm  on  household  word. 

She  needed  not  to  speak,  to  be 
The  best  loved  of  the  company — 
She  did  her  hands  together  press 
With  such  a  child-like  gracefulness ; 
And  such  a  sweet  tranquillity 
Upon  her  silent  lips  did  lie, 
And  such  unsullied  purity 
In  the  blue  heaven  of  her  eye. 

She  moved  among  us  like  to  one 

Who  had  not  lived  on  earth  alone ; 

But  felt  a  dim,  mysterious  sense 

Of  a  more  stately  residence, 

And  seemed  to  have  a  consciousness 

Of  an  anterior  happiness — 

To  hear,  at  times,  the  echoes  sent 

From  some  unearthly  instrument 

With  half-remembered  voices  blent — 

And  yet  to  hold  the  friendships  dear, 

And  prize  the  blessings  of  our  sphere — 


62  REBECCA. 

In  sweet  perplexity  to  know 

Which  of  the  two  was  dreamy  show, 

The  dark  green  earth,  the  deep  blue  skies, 

The  love  which  shone  in  mortal  eyes, 

Or  those  faint  recollections,  telling 

Of  a  more  bright  and  tranquil  dwelling. 

We  could  not  weep  upon  the  day 
When  her  pure  spirit  passed  away ; 
We  thought  we  read  the  mystery 
Which  in  her  life  there  seemed  to  be — 
That  she  was  not  our  own,  but  lent 
To  us  a  little  while,  and  sent 
An  angel  child,  what  others  preach 
Of  heavenly  purity,  to  teach, 
In  ways  more  eloquent  than  speech — 
And  chiefly  by  that  raptured  eye 
Which  seemed  to  look  beyond  the  sky, 
And  that  abstraction,  listening 
To  hear  the  choir  of  seraphs  sing. 

We  thought  that  death  did  seem  to  her 
Of  long-lost  joy  the  harbinger — 
Like  an  old  household  servant,  come 
To  take  the  willing  scholar  home ; 
The  school-house,  it  was  very  dear, 
But  then  the  holidays  were  near ; 
And  why  should  she  be  lingering  here  ? 
Softly  the  Servant  bore  the  child 
Who  at  her  parting  turned  and  smiled, 
And  looked  back  to  n?,  till  the  night 
For  ever  hid  her  from  our  sight. 


LIFE  A  TREADMILL. 

WHO  says  that  life  is  a  treadmill  ? 

You,  merchant,  when,  after  a  weary  day  of  measuring 
cotton-cloth  or  numbering  flower  barrels,  bowing  to  cus 
tomers  or  taking  account  of  stock,  you  stumble  home 
ward,  thinking  to  yourself  that  the  moon  is  a  tolerable 
substitute  for  ,gas  light,  to  prevent  people  from  running 
against  the  posts — and  then,  by  chance,  recall  the  time 
when,  a  school-boy,  you  read  about  "  chaste  Dian"  in 
your  Latin  books,  and  discovered  a  striking  resemblance 
to  moonbeams  in  certain  blue  eyes  that  beamed  upon 
you  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  school-room. 

Ah !  those  were  the  days  when  brick  side- walks  were  as 
elastic  as  India  rubber  beneath  your  feet ;  shop  windows 
were  an  exhibition  of  transparencies  to  amuse  children 
and  young  people,  and  the  world  in  prospect  was  one 
long  pleasure  excursion.  Then  you  drank  the  bright 
effervescence  in  your  glass  of  soda-water,  and  now  you 
must  swallow  the  cold,  flat  settlings,  or  not  get  your 
money's  worth.  Long  ago  you  found  out  that  the  moon 
is  the  origin  of  moonshine,  that  blue  eyes  are  not  quite 
as  fascinating  under  gray  hair  and  behind  spectacles, 
and  that  "money  answereth  all  things." 

You  say  so,  clerk  or  bank-teller,  when  you  look  up 
from  your  books  at  the  new-fallen  snow  glistening  in 
the  morning  light,  and  feel  something  like  the  prancing 
of  horses'  hoofs  in  the  soles  of  your  boots,  and  hear  the 
jingling  of  sleigh  bells  in  your  mind's  ear,  long  after 


0-t  LIFE  A   TREADMILL. 

the  sound  of  them  has  passed  from  your  veritable 
auriculars. 

You  say  so,  teacher,  while  going  through  the  daily 
drill  of  your  ABC  regiments,  your  multiplication  table 
platoons,  and  your  chirographical  battalions. 

You  say  so,  factory  girl,  passing  backward  and  for 
ward  from  the  noise  and  whirl  of  wheels  in  the  mills,  to 
the  whirl  and  noise  of  wheels  in  your  dreams. 

You  say  go,  milliner's  apprentice,  as  you  sit  down  to 
sew  gay  ribbons  on  gay  bonnets,  and  stand  up  to  try 
gay  bonnets  on  gay  heads. 

You  say  so,  housemaid  or  housekeeper,  when  the  song 
of  the  early  bird  reminds  you  of  crying  children,  whose 
faces  are  to  be  washed;  when  the  rustling  of  fallen 
leaves  in  the  wind  makes  you  wonder  how  the  new 
broom  is  going  to  sweep ;  when  the  aroma  of  roses  sug 
gests  the  inquiry  whether  the  box  of  burnt  coffee  is 
empty ;  and  when  the  rising  sun,  encircled  by  vapoury 
clouds,  brings  up  the  similitude  of  a  huge  fire-proof 
platter,  and  the  smoke  of  hot  potatoes. 

There  is  a  principle  in  human  nature  which  rebels 
against  repetitions.  Who  likes  to  fall  asleep,  thinking 
that  to-morrow  morning  he  must  get  up  and  do  exactly 
the  same  things  that  he  did  to-day,  the  next  day  ditto, 
and  so  forth,  until  the  chapter  of  earthly  existence  is 
finished ! 

It  is  very  irksome  for  these  soaring  thoughts  winged 
to  "wander  through  eternity,"  to  come  down  and  work 
out  the  terms  of  a  tedious  apprenticeship  to  the  senses. 
And  yet,  what  were  thoughts  unlocalized  and  unem- 


LIFE   A   TREADMILL.  65 

bodied?  Mere  comets  or  vague  nebulosities  in  the 
firmament,  without  a  form,  and  without  a  home. 

All  things  have  their  orbit,  and  are  held  in  it  by  the 
power  of  two  great  opposing  forces. 

Outward  circumstances  form  the  centripetal  force, 
which  keeps  us  in  ours.  Let  the  eccentric  will  fly  off  at 
ever  so  wide  a  tangent  for  a  time,  back  it  must  come  to 
a  regular  diurnal  path,  or  wander  away  into  the  "black 
ness  of  darkness."  And  if  these  daily  duties  and  cares 
come  to  us  robed  in  the  shining  livery  of  Law,  should 
we  not  accept  them  as  bearers  of  a  sublime  mission  ? 

"What?"  you  say,  "  anything  sublime  in  yardstick 
tactics  or  ledger  columns  ?  Anything  sublime  in  wash 
ing  dishes  or  trimming  bonnets?  The  idea  is  simply 
ridiculous!" 

No,  not  ridiculous ;  only  a  simple  idea,  and  great  in 
its  simplicity.  For  the  manner  of  performing  even 
menial  duties,  gives  you  the  gauge  and  dimensions  of 
the  doer's  inward  strength.  The  power  of  the  soul 
asserts  itself,  not  so  much  in  shaping  favourable  cir 
cumstances  to  desired  ends,  as  in  resisting  the  pressure 
of  crushing  circumstances,  and  triumphing  over  them. 

Manufactures,  trades,  and  all  the  subordinate  arts 
and  occupations  that  keep  the  ear  of  civilization  in 
motion,  may  be  to  you  machines  moving  with  a  monoto 
nous  and  unmeaning  buzz,  or  they  may  be  like  Ezekiel's 
vision  of  wheels  involved  in  wheels,  that  were  lifted  up 
from  the  earth  by  the  power  of  the  living  creature  that 
was  in  them. 

Grumbling  man  or  woman,  life  is  a  treadmill  to  you, 
because  you  look  doggedly  down  and  see  nothing  but  the 
5 


66  LIFE   A   TREADMILL. 

dull  steps  you  take.  If  you  would  cease  grumbling,  and 
look  up,  your  life  would  be  transformed  into  a  Jacob's 
ladder,  and  every  step  onward  would  be  a  step  upward 
too.  And  even  if  it  were  a  treadmill,  to  which  you  and 
other  mortals  were  condemned  for  past  offences,  a  kindly 
sympathy  for  your  fellow-prisoners  could  carpet  the  way 
with  velvet,  and  you  might  move  on  smilingly  together, 
as  through  the  mazes  of  an  easy  dance. 

It  is  of  no  use  to  preach  the  old  sermon  of  content 
ment  with  one  condition,  whatever  it  may  be,  a  sermon 
framed  for  lands  where  aristocracies  are  fixtures,  in  this 
generation  and  on  this  continent.  Discontent  is  a  ne 
cessity  of  republicanism,  until  the  millennium  comes. 

Yet  it  is  not  sensible  to  complain  of  the  present,  until 
we  have  gleaned  its  harvests  and  drained  its  sap,  and  it 
has  become  capital  for  us  to  draw  upon  in  the  future. 
Most  of  the  dissatisfied  grumblers  of  our  day  are  like 
children  from  whom  the  prospect  of  a  Christmas  pie, 
intended  for  the  climax  of  a  supper,  takes  away  all 
relish  for  the  more  solid  and  wholesome  introductory 
exercises  of  bread  and  butter. 

What  is  it  we  would  have  our  life?  Not  princely 
pomp  and  equipments,  nor  to  "marry  the  prince's  own," 
which  used  to  form  the  denouement  of  every  fairy  tale, 
will  suffice  us  now ;  for  every  ingenious  Yankee  school 
boy  or  girl  has  learned  to  dissect  the  puppet  show  of 
royalty,  and  knows  that  its  personages  move  in  a  routine 
the  most  hampered  and  helpless  of  all. 

The  honour  of  being  four  years  in  stepping  from  one 
door  of  the  "  White  House"  to  the  other,  ceases  to  be 
the  meed  of  a  dignified  ambition  when  it  results  from  a 


LIFE  A  TREADMILL.  67 

skilful  shuffling  of  political  cards,  rather  than  from 
strength  and  steadiness  of  head  and  an  upright  gait. 

If  we  ask  for  freedom  from  care,  and  leisure  to  enjoy 
life — until  we  have  learned,  through  the  discipline  of 
labour  and  care,  how  to  appreciate  and  use  leisure — we 
might  as  well  petition  from  government  a  grant  of 
prairie  land*  for  Egyptian  mummies  to  run  races  upon. 

If  one  might  get  himself  appointed  to  the  general 
overseership  of  the  solar  system,  still,  what  would  his 
occupation  be  but  a  regular  pacing  to  and  fro  from  the 
sun  to  the  outermost  limits  of  Le  Verrier's  calculations, 
and  perhaps  a  little  farther  ?  A  succession  of  rather 
longish  strides  he  would  have  to  take,  to  be  sure ;  now 
burning  his  soles  in  the  fires  of  Mercury ;  now  hitting 
his  corns  against  some  of  the  pebbly  Asteroids,  and  now 
slipping  upon  the  icy  rim  of  Neptune.  Still,  if  he  made 
drudgery  of  his  work  by  keeping  his  soul  out  of  it,  he 
would  only  have  his  treadmill  life  over  again,  on  a  large 
scale. 

The  monotony  of  our  three-score  years  and  ten  is 
wearisome  to  us;  what  can  we  think  then  of  the  poor 
planets,  doomed  to  the  same  diurnal  spinning,  the  same 
annual  path,  for  six  thousand  years,  to  our  certain 
knowledge  ?  And,  if  telescopes  tell  us  the  truth,  the 
universe  is  an  ever-widening  series  of  similar  monoto 
nies. 

Yet  space  is  ample  enough  to  give  all  systems  variety 
of  place.  While  each  planet  moves  steadily  along  on 
the  edge  of  its  plane,  the  whole  solar  equipage  is  going 
forward  to  open  a  new  track  on  the  vast  highway  of  the 
heavens. 


68  ARTHUR   LELAND. 

We  too,  moving  in  our  several  spheres  with  honest 
endeavours  and  aspirations,  are,  by  the  stability  of  our 
motions,  lifting  and  being  lifted,  with  the  whole  compact 
human  brotherhood,  into  a  higher  elevation,  a  brighter 
revelation  of  the  Infinite,  the  Universe  of  Wisdom  and 
Love. 

And  in  this  view,  though  our  efforts  be  humble  and 
our  toil  hard,  life  can  never  be  a  treadmill. 


ARTHUR  LELAND. 

ARTHUR  LELAND  was  a  young  lawyer  of  some  twenty- 
seven  years  of  age.  His  office  stood  a  stone's  throw 
from  the  court-house,  in  a  thriving  town  in  the  West. 
Arthur  had  taken  a  full  course  in  a  Northern  college, 
both  in  the  collegiate  and  law  department,  and  with 
some  honour.  During  his  course  he  had  managed  to 
read  an  amazing  amount  of  English  literature,  and  no 
man  was  readier  or  had  a  keener  taste  in  such  things 
than  he.  He  had  a  pleasing  personal  appearance,  a 
fluent  and  persuasive  manner,  an  unblemished  character. 
Every  morning  he  came  to  his  office  from  one  of  the 
most  pleasant  little  cottage  homes  in  the  world ;  and  if 
you  had  opened  the  little  front  gate,  and  gone  up  through 
the  shrubbery  to  the  house,  you  would  have  seen  a  Mrs. 
Leland,  somewhere  in-doors,  and  she  as  intelligent  and 
pleasant  a  lady  as  you  ever  saw.  You  would  have  seen, 
moreover,  tumbling  about  the  grass,  or  up  to  the  eyes 


ARTHUR   LELAND.  Dl) 

in  some  mischief,  as  noble-looking  a  little  fellow  of  some 
three  years  old  as  you  could  well  have  wished  for  your 
own  son. 

This  all  looks  well  enough,  hut  there  is  something 
wrong.  Not  in  the  house.  No;  it  is  as  pleasant  a 
cottage  as  you  could  wish — plenty  of  garden,  peas  and 
honeysuckles,  climbing  up  everywhere,  green  grass, 
white  paint,  Venetian  blinds,  comfortable  furniture. 

Not  in  Willie,  the  little  scamp.  No ;  rosy,  healthy, 
good  head,  intelligent  eyes,  a  fine  specimen  he  was  of 
an  only  son.  Full  of  mischief,  of  course,  he  was. 
Overflowing  with  uproar  and  questions  and  mischief. 
Mustachios  of  egg  or  butter-milk  or  molasses  after  each 
meal,  as  a  matter  of  course.  Cut  fingers,  bumped  fore 
head,  torn  clothes,  all  day  long.  Yet  a  more  affection 
ate,  easily-managed  child  never  was. 

The  mischief  was  not  in  Lucy,  the  Mrs.  Leland.  I 
assure  you  it  was  not,  Leland  knew,  to  his  heart's  core, 
that  a  lovelier,  more  prudent,  sensible,  intelligent  wife 
it  was  impossible  to  exist.  Thrifty,  loving,  lady-like, 
right  and  true  throughout. 

Where  was  this  mischief?  Look  at  Leland.  He  is 
in  perpetual  motion.  Reading,  writing,  walking  the 
streets,  he  is  always  fast,  in  dead  earnest.  Somewhat 
too  fast.  There  is  a  certain  slowness  about  your  strong 
man.  You  never  associate  the  idea  of  mental  depth 
and  power  with  your  quick-stepping  man.  You  cannot 
conceive  of  a  Roman  emperor  or  a  Daniel  Webster  as 
a  slight,  swift  man.  The  bearing  of  a  man's  body  is 
the  outward  emblem  of  the  bearing  of  his  soul.  Leland 
is  rather  slight,  ra'ther  swift.  He  meets  you  in  his 


70  ARTHUR  LELAND. 

rapid  walk.  He  stops,  grasps  your  hand,  asks  cordially 
after  your  health.  There  is  an  open,  warm  feeling  in 
the  man.  No  hypocrisy  whatever.  Yet  he  talks  too 
fast.  He  don't  give  you  half  a  chance  to  answer  one 
of  his  rapid  questions,  before  he  is  asking  another 
totally  different.  He  is  not  at  ease.  He  keeps  you 
from  being  at  ease.  You  feel  it  specially  in  his  house. 
He  is  too  cordial,  too  full  of  effort  to  make  your  visit 
pleasant  to  you.  You  like  him,  yet  you  don't  feel  al 
together  at  home  with  him.  You  are  glad  when  he 
leaves  you  to  his  more  composed  wife.  You  never  knew 
or  heard  of  his  saying  or  doing  anything  wrong  or  even 
unbecoming.  You  look  upon  him  as  a  peculiar  sort  of 
man — well,  somehow — but !  He  is  at  the  bar  defending 
that  woman,  who  sits  by  him,  dressed  in  mourning — 
some  chancery  case.  Or  it  is  a  criminal  case,  and  it  is 
the.  widow's  only  son  that  Leland  is  defending.  If  you 
had  been  in  his  office  for  the  last  week,  you  would  have 
acknowledged  that  he  has  studied  the  case,  has  prepared 
himself  on .  it  as  thoroughly  as  a  man  can.  He  is  an 
ambitious  man.  He  intensely  desires  to  make  for  him 
self  a  fortune  and  a  position.  His  address  to  the  judge, 
or  to  the  jury,  as  the  case  may  be,  is  a  good  one.  Yet, 
somehow,  he  does  not  convince.  He  himself  is  carried 
away  by  his  own  earnestness,  but  he  does  not  carry 
away  with  him  his  hearers.  His  remarks  are  interest 
ing.  People  listen  to  him  from  first  to  last  closely. 
Yet  his  arguing  does  not,  somehow,  convince.  His  pa 
thos  does  not,  somehow,  melt.  He  is  the  sort  of  man 
that  people  think  of  for  the  Legislature.  No  man  ever 


ARTHUR   LELAND.  71 

thinks  of  him  in  connexion  with  the  Supreme  Bench  or 
Senate. 

Wherein  lies  the  defect  ?  Arthur  Leland  is  well  read, 
a  gentleman  of  spotless  character,  of  earnest  applica 
tion,  of  popular  manners.  Why  is  not  this  man  a  man 
of  more  weight,  power,  standing?  Why,  you  answer, 
the  man  is  just  what  he  is.  He  fills  just  the  position 
up  to  which  his  force  of  mind  raises  him.  Did  he  have 
more  talent,  he  would  be  more.  No,  sir.  Every  ac 
quaintance  he  has  known,  he  himself  knows,  that  he  is 
capable  of  being  much  more  than  he  is — somehow, 
somehow  he  does  not  attain  to  it !  It  is  this  singular 
impression  Leland  makes  upon  you.  It  is  this  singular, 
uneasy,  unsatisfied  feeling  he  himself  is  preyed  upon 
by.  "  He  might  be,  but  he  is  not,"  say  his  neighbours. 
"  I  am  not,  yet  I  might  be,"  worries  him  as  an  incessant 
and  eternal  truth. 

It  broke  upon  him  like  a  revelation. 

He  was  at  work  one  fine  morning  in  his  garden,  in  a 
square  in  which  young  watermelon  plants  of  a  choice 
kind  were  just  springing.  Willie  was  there  with  him, 
just  emerged  fresh  for  fun  from  the  waters  of  sleep. 
Very  anxious  to  be  as  near  as  possible  to  his  father, 
who  was  always  his  only  playmate,  Willie  had  strayed 
from  the  walk  in  which  his  father  had  seated  him,  and 
stood  beside  his  father.  With  a  -quick,  passionate  mo 
tion,  Leland  seized  his  child,  and  placed  him  violently 
back  in  the  walk,  with  a  harsh  threat.  The  child  whim 
pered  for  a  while,  and  soon  forgetting  himself,  came  to 
his  father  again  over  the  tender  plants.  This  time  Le 
land  seized  him  still  more  violently,  seated  him  roughly 


72  ARTHUR   LELAND. 

in  the  walk,  and,  with  harsh  threats,  struck  him  upon 
his  plump  red  cheek.  Willie  burst  into  tears,  and  wept 
in  passion.  His  father  was  in  a  miserable,  uneasy  frame 
of  mind.  He  ceased  his  work,  bared  his  brow  to  the 
delicious  morning  air.  He  leaned  upon  his  hoe,  and 
gazed  upon  his  child.  He  felt  there  was  something  wrong. 
He  always  knew,  and  acknowledged,  that  he  was  of  a 
rash,  irritable  disposition.  He  now  remembered  that 
ever  since  his  child's  birth  he  had  been  exceedingly  im 
patient  with  it.  He  remembered  how  harshly  he  had 
spoken  to  it,  how  rudely  he  had  tossed  it  on  his  knee 
when  it  awoke  him  with  its  crying  at  night.  He  re 
membered  that  the  little  one  had  been  daily  with  him 
for  now  three  years,  and  that  not  a  day  had  passed  in 
which  he  had  not  spoken  loudly,  fiercely  to  the  child. 

Yes,  he  remembered  the  heavy  blows  he  had  given  it 
in  bursts  of  passion,  blows  deeply  regretted  the  instant 
after,  yet  repeated  on  the  first  temptation.  He  thought 
of  it  all ;  that  his  boy  was  but  a  little  child,  and  that 
he  had  spoken  to  it,  and  expected  from  it,  as  if  it  were 
grown.  All  his  passionate,  cruel  words  and  blows  rushed 
upon  his  memory ;  his  rough  replies  to  childish  ques 
tions  ;  his  unmanly  anger  at  childish  offences.  He 
thought,  too,  how  the  little  boy  had  still  followed  him, 
because  its  father  was  all  on  earth  to  him;  how  the 
little  thing  had  said,  he  "was  sorry,"  and  had  offered  a 
kiss  even  after  some  bitter  word  or  blow  altogether  un 
deserved.  Leland  remembered,  too,  as  the  morning  air 
blew  aside  his  hair,  how  often  he  had  shown  the  same 
miserable,  nervous  irritability  to  his  dog,  his  horse,  his 
servants ;  even  the  branch  of  the  tree  that  struck  him 


ARTHUR   LELAND.  73 

as  he  walked ;  yea,  even  to  his  own  wife.  He  remem 
bered  how  the  same  black,  unhappy  feelings  had  clouded 
his  brow,  had  burst  from  his  lips  at  every  little  domestic 
annoyance  that  had  happened.  He  could  not  but  re 
member  how  it  had  only  made  matters  worse — had  made 
himself  and  his  family  wretched  for  the  time.  He  felt  how 
undignified,  how  unmanly  all  this  was.  He  pictured 
himself  before  his  own  eyes  as  a  peevish,  uneasy,  irri 
table,  unhappy  man — so  weak-minded  ! 

He  glanced  at  the  house ;  he  knew  his  wife  was  in  it, 
engaged  in  her  morning  duties  ;  gentle,  lady-like,  loving 
him  so  dearly.  He  glanced  at  his  sobbing  child,  and 
saw  how  healthful  and  intelligent  he  was.  He  glanced 
over  his  garden,  and  orchard,  and  lawn,  and  saw  how 
pleasant  was  his  home.  He  thought  of  his  circle  of 
friends,  his  position  in  business,  his  own  education  and 
health.  He  saw  how  much  he  had  to  make  him  happy ; 
and  all  jarred  and  marred,  and  cursed  by  his  miserable 
fits  of  irritation ;  the  fever,  the  plague  increasing  daily ; 
becoming  his  nature,  breathing  the  pestilent  atmosphere 
of  hell  over  himself  and  all  connected  with  him. 

As  he  thus  thought,  his  little  boy  again  forgot  him 
self,  and  strayed  with  heedless  feet  toward  his  father. 
Leland  dropped  his  hoe,  reached  toward  his  child.  The 
little  fellow  threw  up  his  hands,  and  writhed  his  body 
as  if  expecting  a  blow. 

"Willie,"  said  the  father,  in  a  low,  gentle  voice. 
Willie  looked  up  with  half  fright,  half  amazement. 
"  Willie,  boy,"  said  the  father  in  a  new  tone,  which  had 
never  passed  his  lips  before,  and  he  felt  the  deep,  calm 


74  ARTHUR   LELAND. 

power  of  his  own  words.  "Willie,  boy,  don't  walk  on 
pa's  plants.  Go  back,  and  stay  there  till  pa  is  done." 

The  child  turned  as  by  the  irresistible  power  of  the 
slow-spoken,  gentle  words,  and  walked  back  and  re 
sumed  his  seat,  evidently  not  intending  to  transgress 
again. 

As  Leland  stood  with  the  words  dying  on  his  lips, 
and  his  hand  extended,  a  sudden  and  singular  idea 
struck  him.  He  felt  that  he  had  just  said  the  most 
impressive  and  eloquent  thing  he  had  ever  said  in  his 
life !  He  felt  that  there  was  a  power  in  his  tone  and 
manner  which  he  had  never  used  before  ;  a  power  which 
would  affect  a  judge  or  a  jury,  as  it  had  affected  Willie. 
The  curse  cursed  here  too !  It  was  that  hasty,  nervous 
disposition,  which  gave  manner  and  tone  to  his  very 
public  speaking  ;  which  made  his  arguments  unconvinc 
ing,  his  pathos  unaffecting.  It  was  just  that  calm, 
deep,  serene  feeling  and  manner,  which  was  needed  at 
the  bar  as  well  as  with  Willie.  Arguing  with  that  feel 
ing  and  manner,  he  felt,  would  convince  irresistibly. 
Pleading  with  that  quiet,  gentle  spirit,  he  felt  would 
melt,  would  affect  the  hearts  as  with  the  very  emotion 
of  tears. 

Unless  you  catch  the  idea,  there  is  no  describing  it, 
reader.  Leland  was  a  Christian.  All  that  day  he 
thought  upon  the  whole  matter.  That  night  in  the 
privacy  of  his  office  he  knelt  and  repeated  the  whole 
matter  before  God.  For  his  boy's  sake,  for  his  wife's 
lake,  for  his  own  sake,  for  his  usefulness'  sake  at  the 
bar,  he  implored  steady  aid  to  overcome  the  deadly, 
besetting  sin.  He  pleaded  that,  indulging  in  that  dispo- 


ARTHUR   LELAND.  75 

sition,  he  was  alienating  from  himself  his  boy  and  his 
wife ;  yea,  that  he  was  alienating  his  own  better  self 
from  himself,  for  he  was  losing  his  own  self-respect. 
And  here  his  voice  sank  from  a  murmur  into  silence ; 
he  remembered  that  he  was  thus  alienating  from  his 
bosom  and  his  side — God ! 

And  then  he  remembered  that  just  such  a  daily  dis 
position  as  he  lacked  was  exactly  that  disposition  which 
characterized  God  when  God  became  man.  The  excel 
lence  of  such  a  disposition  rose  serenely  before  him, 
embodied  in  the  person  of  Jesus  Christ ;  the  young 
lawyer  fell  forward  on  his  face  and  wept  in  the  agony 
of  his  desire  and  his  prayer. 

From  that  sweet  spring  morning  was  Arthur  Leland 
another  man ;  a  wiser,  abler,  more  successful  man  in 
every  sense.  Not  all  at  once;  steadily,  undoubtedly 
advanced  the  change.  The  wife  saw  and  felt,  and  re 
joiced  in  it.  Willie  felt  it,  and  was  restrained  by  it  in 
every  drop  of  his  merry  blood ;  the  household  felt  it, 
as  a  ship  does  an  even  wind ;  and  sailed  on  over  smooth 
seas  constrained  by  it.  You  saw  the  change  in  the 
man's  very  gait  and  bearing  and  conversation.  Judge 
and  jury  felt  it.  It  was  the  ceasing  of  a  fever  in  the 
frame  of  a  strong  man ;  and  Leland  went  about  easily, 
naturally,  the  strong  man  he  was.  The  old,  uneasy, 
self-harassing  feeling  was  forgotten,  and  an  ease  and 
grace  of  tone  and  manner  succeeded.  It  was  a  higher 
development  of  the  father,  the  husband,  the  orator,  the 
gentleman,  the  Christian.  Surely  love  is  the  fountain 
of  patience  and  peace.  Surely  it  is  the  absence  of 
passion  which  makes  angels  to  be  the  beings  they  are. 


76  THE    SCARLET   POPPY. 

Men  can  become  very  nearly  angels  or  devils,  even 
before  they  have  left  the  world. 


THE  SCARLET  POPPY. 

ONE  warm  morning  in  June,  just  as  the  sun  returned 
from  his  long  but  rapid  journey  to  the  distant  east,  and 
sailed  majestically  up  through  the  clear  blue  sky,  the 
many  bright  flowers  of  one  of  the  prettiest  little  par 
terres  in  the  world,  who  had  opened  their  eyes — those 
bright  flowers — to  smile  at  the  sunbeams  which  came  to 
kiss  away  the  tears  night  had  shed  over  them,  were 
very  much  surprised,  and  not  a  little  offended  to  find  in 
their  very  midst  an  individual  who,  though  most  of  them 
knew  her,  one  might  have  supposed,  from  their  appear 
ance,  was  a  perfect  stranger  to  them  all. 

The  parterre,  I  have  said,  was  small,  for  it  was  in  the 
very  heart  of  a  great  city,  where  land  would  bring  almost 
any  price ;  but  the  gentleman  and  lady  who  lived  in 
the  noble  mansion  which  fronted  it,  would  not,  for  the 
highest  price  which  might  have  been  offered  them,  have 
had  those  sweet  flowers  torn  up,  and  a  brick  pile  reared 
in  the  place — their  only  child,  the  dear  little  Carie, 
loved  the  garden  so  dearly,  and  spent  so  much  of  her 
time  there. 

Oh,  it  was  a  sweet  little  place,  though  it  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  city  where  the  air  was  full  of  dust  and 
coal  smoke ;  for  the  fountain  which  played  in  the  garden 


THE   SCARLET   POPPY.  77 

kept  the  atmosphere  pure  and  cool,  and  every  day  the 
gardener  showered  all  the  plants  so  that  their  leaves  were 
green  and  fresh  as  though  they  were  blooming  far  away 
in  their  native  woods  and  dells.  There  were  sweet  roses 
of  every  hue,  from  the  pure  Alba  to  the  dark  Damascus ; 
and  pinks,  some  of  the  most  spicy  odour,  some  almost 
scentless,  but  all  so  beautiful  and  so  nicely  trimmed. 
The  changeless  amaranth  was  there,  the  pale,  sweet- 
scented  heliotrope,  always  looking  towards  the  sun; 
the  pure  lily ;  and  the  blue  violet,  which,  though  it  had 
been  taught  to  bloom  far  away  from  the  mossy  bed 
where  it  had  first  opened  its  meek  eye  to  the  light,  had 
not  yet  forgotten  its  gentleness  and  modesty ;  and  not 
far  from  them  were  the  fickle  hydrangea,  the  cardinal 
flower  with  its  rich,  showy  petals,  and  the  proud,  vain, 
and  ostentatious,  but  beautiful  crimson  and  white  peonias. 
The  dahlias  had  yet  put  forth  but  very  few  blossoms,  but 
.they  were  elegant,  and  the  swelling  buds  promised  that 
ere  long  there  would  be  a  rich  display  of  brilliant  colours. 
Honeysuckles,  the  bright-hued  and  fragrant,  the  white 
jasmine,  and  many  other  climbing  plants,  were  latticing 
the  little  arbour  beside  the  clear  fountain,  half  hiding 
their  jewel-like  pensile  blossoms  and  bright  red  berries 
among  the  smooth  green  leaves  which  clustered  so  closely 
together  as  to  shut  out  completely  the  hot  sun  from  the 
little  gay-plumaged  and  sweet-voiced  songsters  whose 
gilt  cage  hung  within  the  bower.  But  I  cannot  speak 
\  of  the  flowers,  there  were  so  many  of  them,  and  they 
were  all  so  beautiful  and  so  sweet-scented. 

Well,  this  June  morning,  as  I  was  saying,  when  the 
flowers,  as  they  were  waked  from  their  sleep  by  the 


78  THE    SCARLET   POPPY. 

sunbeams  which  came  to  kiss  away  the  tears  night  had 
shed  over  them,  opened  their  eyes  and  looked  about 
them,  they  were  surprised  and  offended  to  see  a  stranger 
in  their  company. 

There  had  been,  through  all  the  season,  some  little 
rivalries  and  jealousies  among  the  flowers ;  but  from  the 
glances  which  they  turned  on  each  other,  this  morning, 
it  was  evident  that  their  feelings  towards  the  stranger 
were  exactly  alike.  However,  as  might  be  expected 
from  their  different  dispositions,  they  expressed  their 
dislike  and  contempt  for  her  in  different  ways ;  but  at 
first  all  hesitated  to  address  her,  for  no  one  seemed  to 
find  language  strong  enough  to  express  the  scorn  they 
felt  for  her ;  until  the  balsam,  who  never  could  keep 
silent  long,  inquired  of  the  stranger,  in  a  very  impatient 
tone,  what  was  her  name,  and  how  she  came  there. 

The  poor  thing  hesitated  an  instant,  and  her  face 
grew  very  red ;  she  must  have  known  that  her  presence 
in  that  company  was  very  much  undesired,  and  when 
she  spoke,  it  was  in  a  low  and  embarrassed  tone. 

"My  name  is  Papaver,  and — " 

But  the  Marygold  laughed  aloud.  "Papaver!"  she 
repeated  in  her  most  scornful  tone ;  "  she  is  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  a  Poppy — a  great  offensive  Poppy, 
whose  breath  fairly  makes  me  sick.  Long  ago,  when — " 

But  here  the  Marygold  stopped  short,  it  would  not 
do  to  confess  to  her  genteel  friends,  that  she  had  for 
merly  been  acquainted  with  the  disreputable  stranger. 
They  did  not  heed  her  embarrassment,  however,  for 
every  one,  now  that  the  silence  was  broken,  was  anxious 
to  speak ;  all  but  the  Mimosa,  who  could  not  utter  a 


THE   SCARLET   POPPY.  79 

word,  for  she  had  fainted  quite  away — the  red  Rose  who 
was  very  diffident,  and  the  Dahlia  who  was  too  dignified 
to  meddle  with  such  trifling  affairs. 

"You  great,  red-faced  thing  1"  said  the  Carnation, 
"  how  came  you  here  in  your  ragged  dress  ?  Do  you 
know  what  kind  of  company  you  are  in  ?  Who  first 
saw  her  here?" 

"I  saw  her,"  said  the  Morning  Glory,  who  usually 
waked  quite  early,  "  I  saw  her  before  she  had  got  her 
eyes  open ;  and  what  do  you  suppose  she  had  on  her 
head  ?  Why  a  little  green  cap  which  she  has  just  pulled 
off  and  thrown  away.  There  it  lies  on  the  ground  now. 
Only  look  at  it !  no  wonder  she  was  ashamed  of  it.  Can 
you  think  what  she  wore  it  for  ?" 

"Why,  yes!"  said  the  Ladies'  Slipper.  "She  is  so 
handsome  and  so  delicate  that  she  was  fearful  the  early 
hours  might  injure  her  health  and  destroy  her  charms  !" 

"  No,  no  !"  interrupted  another ;  "  she  was  afraid  the 
morning  breeze  might  steal  away  her  sweet  breath !" 

"You  had  better  gather  up  your  sweet  leaves,  and 
put  on  your  cap  again,"  said  the  London  Pride.  "I 
see  a  golden-winged  butterfly  in  Calla's  cup ;  your  spicy 
breath  will  soon  bring  him  here  to  drink  of  your  nectar !" 

The  most  of  the  flowers  laughed,  but  the  Carnation 
still  called  out — "How  came  she  here?" 

The  Amaranth,  however,  who  never  slept  a  wink 
through  the  whole  night,  would  not  answer  the  question, 
though  the  flowers  were  certain  that  she  could,  were  she 
so  inclined. 

"I  do  not  see  how  you  who  are  in  her  immediate 


80  THE    SCARLET   POPPY. 

neighbourhood,  can  breathe !"  said  the  Syringa,  who 
was  farthest  removed  from  the  poor  Poppy. 

"  I  do  feel  as  if  I  should  faint !"  said  the  Verbena. 

"  And  I  feel  a  cold  chill  creeping  over  me !"  said  the 
Ice  Plant. 

"  That  is  not  strange !"  remarked  the  Nightshade, 
who  had  sprung  up  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge,  "  she 
carries  with  her,  everywhere  she  goes,  the  atmosphere 
of  the  place  whence  she  comes.  Do  you  know  where 
that  is?" 

Some  of  the  flowers  shuddered,  but  the  Nightshade 
went  on : — 

"  The  Poppy  is  indigenous  now  only  on  the  verdure- 
less  banks  of  the  Styx.  When  Proserpine,  who  was 
gathering  flowers,  was  carried  away  to  the  dark  Avernus, 
all  the  other  blossoms  which  she  had  woven  in  her  gar 
land  withered  and  died,  but  the  Poppy ;  and  that  the 
goddess  planted  in  the  land  of  darkness  and  gloom,  and 
called  it  the  flower  of  Death.  She  flourishes  there  in 
great  luxuriance ;  Nox  and  Somnus  make  her  bed  their 
couch.  The  aching  head,  which  is  bound  with  a  garland 
of  her  blossoms,  ceases  to  throb  ;  the  agonized  soul  which 
drinks  in  her  deep  breath,  wakes  no  more  to  sorrow. 
Death  follows  wherever  she  comes  !" 

"We  will  not  talk  of  such  gloomy  things!"  said  the 
Coreopsis,  with  difficulty  preserving  her  cheerfulness. 

But  the  other  plants  were  silent  and  dejected  ;  all  but 
the  Amaranth,  who  knew  herself  gifted  with  immortality, 
and  the  Box,  who  was  very  stoical.  But  another  trial 
awaited  the  poor  Poppy. 

The  Nightshade  had  hardly  ceased  speaking,  when 


THE   SCARLET   POPPY.  81 

soft,  gentle  human  voices  were  heard  in  the  garden, 
and  a  child  of  three  summers,  with  rosy  cheeks,  deep 
blue  eyes,  and  flowing,  golden  hair,  came  bounding  down 
the  gravelled  walks,  followed  by  a  fair  lady.  The  child 
had  come  to  bid  good  morning  to  her  flowers  and  birds, 
and  as  she  carolled  to  the  latter,  and  paused  now  and 
then  to  inhale  the  breath  of  some  fragrant  blossom,  and 
examine  the  elegant  form  and  rich  and  varied  tints 
of  another,  the  little  songsters  sang  more  loudly  and 
cheerily ;  and  the  flowers,  it  seemed,  became  more  sweet 
and  beautiful. 

The  Poppy,  who  was  as  ignorant  as  was  any  one  else 
how  she  had  found  her  way  into  the  garden,  now  began 
to  reason  with  herself. 

"Some  one  must  have  planted  me  here,"  she  said; 
"  and  though  I  am  not  as  sweet  as  that  proud  Carna 
tion,  nor  so  elegant  as  that  dignified  Dahlia,  I  may  have 
as  much  right  to  remain  here  as  they !"  and  she  raised 
her  head  erect,  and  spread  out  her  broad,  scarlet  petals, 
with  their  deep,  ragged  fringe,  hoping  to  attract  the 
notice  of  the  little  girl. 

And  so  indeed  she  did ;  for  as  the  child  paused  be 
fore  a  pale  sweet-scented  Verbena,  the  flaunting  Poppy 
caught  her  eye,  and  she  extended  her  hand  toward  the 
strange  blossom. 

"  Carie,  Carie,  don't  touch  that  vile  thing  !"  said  her 
mother,  "it  is  poisonous.  The  smell  of  it  will  make 
you  sick.  I  do  not  see  how  it  came  here.  John  must 
bring  his  spade  and  take  it  up.  We  will  have  nothing 
in  the  garden  but  what  is  beautiful  or  sweet,  and  this  is 
neither  !" 
6 


S2  TUB   SCARLET  POPPY. 

The  poor  Poppy !  She  had  begun  to  love  the  little 
girl,  the  child  had  smiled  on  her  so  sweetly,  and  the 
other  flowers  had  seemed  so  envious  when  that  little 
white  hand  was  stretched  out  towards  her ;  and  when 
she  drew  back,  at  her  mother's  call,  reluctantly,  but 
with  a  look  of  surprise  and  aversion,  the  Poppy  did  not 
care  how  soon  she  was  banished  from  a  place  where  she 
had  been  treated  so  unjustly. 

However,  she  was  suffered  to  remain ;  whether  the 
lady  neglected  giving  instructions  to  the  gardener  re 
specting  her,  or  whether  he  forgot  her  commands,  I  am 
not  sure ;  but  there  she  remained,  day  after  day,  striving 
every  morning  to  wake  up  early  and  pull  off  her  little 
green  cap  before  the  other  flowers  had  opened  their  eyes, 
but  never  succeeding  in  so  doing. 

It  was  no  enviable  position  that  she  occupied,  .laughed 
at,  despised,  and  scorned  by  all  the  other  flowers  in  the 
garden,  and  in  hourly  expectation  of  being  torn  up  by 
the  roots  and  thrown  into  the  street — the  poor  Poppy ! 

One  day  when  the  lady  and  her  Carie  were  walking 
in  the  garden,  the  little  girl,  who  had  looked  rather 
pale,  put  her  hands  suddenly  to  her  head,  and  cried 
aloud.  Her  mother  was  very  much  frightened.  She 
caught  up  the  little  girl  in  her  arms,  and  tried  to  ascer 
tain  what  was  the  matter ;  but  the  child  only  pressed 
her  hands  more  tightly  to  her  head,  and  cried  more 
piteously.  The  lady  carried  her  into  the  house,  and 
the  family  were  soon  all  in  an  uproar.  The  servants 
were  all  running  hither  and  thither ;  no  one  seemed  to 
know  what  was  the  matter;  for  the  lady  had  fainted 


THE    SCARLET   POPPY. 


from  terror  at  her  child's  pale  face  and  agonized  cries, 
and  the  little  girl  could  tell  nothing. 

"  It  is  that  odious  Poppy  who  is  the  cause  of  all  this !" 
said  the  flowers  one  to  another  (little  Carie  was  indeed 
playing  in  her  immediate  vicinity  when  she  was  seized 
with  that  dreadful  distress),  "  she  has  poisoned  her." 
And  their  suspicions  were  confirmed  when  one  of  the 
servants  came  running  into  the  garden,  and  seizing  hold 
of  the  Poppy,  stripped  off  every  one  of  her  bright  scarlet 
petals,  and  gathering  them  up,  returned  quickly  to  the 
house. 

"You  poor  thing!"  said  the  Elder,  as  the  Poppy,  so 
rudely  handled,  bent  down  her  dishonoured  head  to  the 
ground ;  but  not  one  of  the  other  flowers  addressed  to 
her  a  single  word. 

Through  the  long  day  she  lay  there — the  Poppy — on 
the  earth,  trying  to  forget  what  had  happened ;  for  she 
did  not  know  but  their  words  were  true,  and  she  was 
the  cause  of  the  little  girl's  suffering — she  would  so 
gladly  have  soothed  her  pain.  The  other  flowers  thought 
she  was  dead,  and  the  Poppy  herself  believed  that  she 
should  never  see  the  light  of  another  morning ;  but  just 
before  the  day  was  gone,  the  lady  walked  again  into  the 
garden  accompanied  by  her  husband ;  and — what  do  you 
suppose  the  other  flowers  thought? — without  noticing 
one  of  them,  the  lady  walked  directly  to  the  Poppy, 
lifted  her  head  from  the  ground,  and  leaned  it  against 
the  frame  which  supported  the  proud  Carnation,  and 
then,  with  her  white  hands,  replaced  the  loosened  earth 
about  her  half  uptorn  roots. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it  will  not  die  !"  she  said  to  her  husband, 


84  NUMBER  TWELVE. 

"  I  should  rather  lose  anything  else  in  the  garden ;  for 
I  don't  know  but  it  saved  dear  little  Carie's  life  !  She 
had  a  dreadful  headache,  and  nothing  afforded  her  the 
least  relief,  till  we  bruised  the  leaves  of  the  Poppy, 
and  bound  them  on  her  temples,  and  then  she  became 
quiet,  and  fell  into  a  gentle  sleep.  Oh,  I  hope  it  will 
live !" 

Don't  you  think  the  Poppy  did  live,  and  was  proud 
and  happy  enough  ?  Do  you  think  she  was  ever  after 
wards  ashamed  of  her  little  green  cap,  or  her  ragged 
scarlet  leaves?  And  do  you  think  the  other  flowers 
ever  laughed  at  her  again,  or  were  ashamed  of  her 
acquaintance  ? 

When  the  summer  had  passed  away,  and  the  bright 
blossoms  one  by  one  withered  and  died  before  the 
autumn's  cool  breath,  the  Poppy  cheerfully  scattered 
her  little  seeds  on  the  earth,  and  laid  herself  down  to 
die;  for  she  knew  that  when  another  spring  should 
come,  and  her  children  should  shoot  up  from  the  ground, 
they  would  be  nurtured  as  tenderly,  and  prized  as  highly 
as  those  of  the  sweeter  and  far  more  beautiful  flowers. 


NUMBER  TWELVE. 

WHEN  I  was  a  young  man,  working  at  my  trade  as  a 
mason,  I  met  with  a  severe  injury  by  falling  from  a  scaf 
folding  placed  at  a  height  of  forty  feet  from  the  ground. 
There  I  remained,  stunned  and  bleeding,  on  the  rubbish, 
until  my  companions,  by  attempting  to  remove  me,  re- 


NUMBER    TWELVE.  85 

stored  me  to  consciousness.  I  felt  as  if  the  ground  on 
which  I  was  lying  formed  a  part  of  myself ;  that  I  could 
not  be  lifted  from  it  without  being  torn  asunder ;  and, 
with  the  most  piercing  cries,  I  entreated  my  well-meaning 
assistants  to  leave  me  alone  to  die.  They  desisted  for 
the  moment,  one  running  for  the  doctor,  another  for  a 
litter,  others  surrounding  me  with  pitying  gaze;  but 
amidst  my  increasing  sense  of  suffering,  the  conviction 
began  to  dawn  upon  my  mind,  that  the  injuries  were  not 
mortal ;  and  so,  by  the  time  the  'doctor  and  the  litter 
arrived,  I  resigned  myself  to  their  aid,  and  allowed  my 
self,  without  further  objection,  to  be  carried  to  the 
hospital. 

There  I  remained  for  more  than  three  months,  gradu 
ally  recovering  from  my  bodily  injuries,  but  devoured 
with  an  impatience  at  my  condition,  and  the  slowness 
of  my  cure,  which  effectually  retarded  it.  I  felt  all  the 
restlessness  and  anxiety  of  a  labourer  suddenly  thrown 
out  of  employment  difficult  enough  to  procure,  knowing 
that  there  were  scores  of  others  ready  to  step  into  my 
place;  that  the  job  was  going  on,  and  that,  ten  chances 
to  one,  I  should  never  set  my  foot  on  that  scaffolding 
again.  The  visiting  surgeon  vainly  warned  me  against 
the  indulgence  of  such  passionate  regrets — vainly  incul 
cated  the  opposite  feeling  of  gratitude  demanded  by  my 
escape ;  all  in  vain.  I  tossed  on  my  fevered  bed,  mur 
mured  at  the  slowness  of  his  remedies,  and  might  have 
thus  rendered  them  altogether  ineffectual,  had  not  a 
sudden  change  been  effected  in  my  disposition  by  another, 
at  first  unwelcome,  addition  to  our  patients.  He  was 
placed  in  the  same  ward  with  me,  and  insensibly  I  found 


86  NUMBER   TWELVE. 

my  impatience  rebuked,  my  repinings  hushed  for  very 
shame,  in  the  presence  of  his  meek  resignation  to  far 
greater  privations  and  sufferings.  Fresh  courage  sprang 
from  his  example,  and  soon,  thanks  to  my  involuntary 
physician,  I  was  in  a  fair  road  to  recovery. 

And  he  who  had  worked  the  charm,  what  was  he  ?  A 
poor,  helpless  old  man,  utterly  deformed  by  suffering,  his 
very  name  unnoticed,  or  at  least  never  spoken  in  the 
place  where  he  now  was ;  he  went  only  by  the  appella 
tion  of  No.  12 — the  number  of  his  bed,  which  was  next 
to  my  own.  This  bed  had  already  been  his  refuge  during 
three  long  and  trying  illnesses,  and  had  at  last  become 
a  sort  of  property  for  the  poor  fellow  in  the  eyes  of  doc 
tors,  students,  nurse-tenders,  in  fact,  the  whole  hospital 
staff.  Never  did  a  gentler  creature  walk  on  God's  earth ; 
walk — alas  !  for  him  the  word  was  but  an  old  memory. 
Many  years  before  he  had  totally  lost  the  use  of  his 
legs ;  but,  to  use  his  own  expression,  "  this  misfortune 
did  not  upset  him ;"  he  still  retained  the  power  of  earn 
ing  his  livelihood,  which  he  derived  from  copying  deeds 
for  a  lawyer  at  so  much  per  sheet ;  and  if  the  legs  were 
no  longer  a  support,  the  hands  worked  at  the  stamped 
parchments  as  diligently  as  ever.  But  some  months 
passed  by,  and  then  the  paralysis  attacked  his  right  arm ; 
still  undaunted,  he  taught  himself  to  write  with  the  left ; 
but  hardly  had  the  brave  heart  and  hand  conquered  the 
difficulty,  when  the  enemy  crept  on,  and  disabling  this 
second  ally,  no  more  remained  for  him  than  to  be  con 
veyed  once  more,  though  this  time  as  a  last  resource,  to 
the  hospital.  There  he  had  the  gratification  to  find  his 
former  quarters  vacant,  and  he  took  possession  of  his  old 


NUMBER   TWELVE.  87 

familiar  bed  with  a  satisfaction  that  seemed  to  obliterate 
all  regret  at  being  obliged  to  occupy  it  again.  His  first 
grateful  accents  smote  almost  reproachfully  on  my  ear  : 
"  Misfortune  must  have  its  turn,  but  every  day  has  a  to 


morrow 


It  was  indeed  a  lesson  to  witness  the  gratitude  of  this 
excellent  creature.  The  hospital,  so  dreary  a  sojourn  to 
most  of  its  inmates,  was  a  scene  of  enjoyment  to  him ; 
everything  pleased  him ;  and  the  poor  fellow's  admiration 
of  even  the  most  trifling  conveniences  proved  how  severe 
must  have  been  his  privations.  He  never  wearied  of 
praising  the  neatness  of  the  linen,  the  whiteness  of  the 
bread,  the  quality  of  the  food ;  and  my  surprise  gave 
place  to  the  truest  pity,  when  I  learned  that,  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  this  respectable  old  man  could  only  afford 
himself,  out  of  the  profits  of  his  persevering  industry, 
the  coarsest  bread,  diversified  with  white  cheese,  or  vege 
table  porridge ;  and  yet,  instead  of  reverting  to  his  pri 
vations  in  the  language  of  complaint,  he  converted  them 
into  a  fund  of  gratitude,  and  made  the  generosity  of  the 
nation,  which  had  provided  such  a  retreat  for  the  suffer 
ing  poor,  his  continual  theme.  Nor  did  his  thankful 
spirit  confine  itself  to  this.  To  listen  to  him,  you  would 
have  believed  him  an  especial  object  of  divine  as  well  as 
human  benevolence — all  things  working  for  his  good. 
The  doctor  used  to  say  that  No.  12  had  a  "  mania  for 
happiness ;"  but  it  was  a  mania,  that,  in  creating  esteem 
for  its  victim,  infused  fresh  courage  into  all  that  came 
within  its  range. 

I  think  I  still  see  him  seated  on  the  side  of  his  bed, 
with  his  little  black  silk  cap,  his  spectacles  and  the  well- 


NUMBER   TWELVE. 

worn  volume,  which  he  never  ceased  perusing.  Every 
morning,  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  rested  on  his  bed, 
always  to  him  a  fresh  subject  of  rejoicing  and  thankful 
ness  to  God.  To  witness  his  gratitude,  one  might  sup 
pose  that  the  sun  was  rising  for  him  alone.  I  need  hardly 
say,  that  he  soon  interested  himself  in  my  cure,  and 
regularly  made  inquiry  respecting  its  progress.  He 
always  found  something  cheering  to  say — something  to 
inspire  patience  and  hope,  himself  a  living  commentary 
on  his  words.  When  I  looked  at  this  poor  motionless 
figure,,  those  distorted  limbs,  and,  crowning  all,  that 
smiling  countenance,  I  had  not  courage  to  be  angry,  or 
even  to  complain.  At  each  painful  crisis,  he  would  ex 
claim  :  "  One  minute,  and  it  will  be  over.  Relief  will 
soon  follow.  Every  day  has  its  to-morrow  !" 

I  had  one  good  and  true  friend — a  fellow-workman, 
who  used  sometimes  to  spare '  an  hour  to  visit  me,  and 
he  took  great  delight  in  cultivating  an  acquaintance  with 
No.  12.  As  if  attracted  by  a  kindred  spirit,  he  never 
passed  his  bed  without  pausing  to  offer  his  cordial  salu 
tation  ;  and  then  he  would  whisper  to  me :  "  He  is  a 
saint  on  earth ;  and  not  content  with  gaining  Paradise 
himself,  must  win  it  for  others  also.  Such  people  should 
have  monuments  erected  to  them,  known  and  read  of 
all  men.  In  observing  such  a  character,  we  feel  ashamed 
of  our  own  happiness — we  feel  how  comparatively  little 
we  deserve  it.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  prove  my 
regard  for  this  good,  poor  No.  12  ?" 

"  Just  try  among  the  bookstalls,"  I  replied,  "  and  find 
the  second  volume  of  that  book  you  see  him  reading. 
It  is  now  more  than  six  years  since  he  lost  it,  and  ever 


NUMBER   TWELVE.  89 

since  he  lias  been  obliged  to  content  himself  with  the 
first." 

Now,  I  must  premise  that  my  worthy  friend  had  a  per 
fect  horror  of  literature,  even  in  its  simplest  stages.  He 
regarded  the  art  of  printing  as  a  Satanic  invention,  fill 
ing  men's  brains  with  idleness  and  conceit ;  and  as  to 
writing — in  his  opinion  a  man  was  never  thoroughly  com 
mitted  until  he  had  recorded  his  sentiments  in  black  and 
white  for  the  inspection  of  his  neighbours.  His  own 
success  in  life,  which  had  been  tolerable,  thanks  to  his 
industry  and  integrity,  he  attributed  altogether  to  his 
ignorance  of  those  dangerous  arts;  and  now  a  cloud 
swept  across  his  lately  beaming  face  as  he  exclaimed, 
"  What !  the  good  creature  is  a  lover  of  books  ?  Well, 
we  must  admit  that  even  the  best  have  their  failings.  No 
matter.  Write  down  the  name  of  this  odd  volume  on  a 
slip  of  paper ;  and  it  shall  go  hard  with  me,  but  I  give 
him  that  gratification." 

He  did  actually  return  the  following  week  with  a  well- 
worn  volume,  which  he  presented  in  triumph  to  the  old 
invalid.  He  looked  somewhat  surprised  as  he  opened 
it ;  but  our  friend  proceeding  to  explain  that  it  was  at 
my  suggestion  he  had  procured  it  in  place  of  the  lost 
one,  the  old  grateful  expression  at  once  beamed  up  in  the 
eyes  of  No.  12,  and  with  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion, 
he  thanked  the  hearty  giver. 

I  had  my  misgivings,  however,  and  the  moment  our 
visiter  turned  his  back,  I  asked  to  see  the  book.  My  old 
neighbour  reddened,  stammered,  and  tried  to  change  the 
conversation ;  but,  forced  behind  his  last  entrenchments, 
he  handed  me  the  little  volume.  It  was  an  old  Royal 


90  NUMBER  TWELVE. 

Almanac.  The  bookseller,  taking  advantage  of  his  cus 
tomer's  ignorance,  had  substituted  it  for  the  book  he  had 
demanded.  I  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter ; 
but  No.  12  checked  me  with  the  only  impatient  word  I 
ever  heard  from  his  lips :  "  Do  you  wish  our  friend  to  hear 
you  ?  I  would  rather  never  recover  the  power  of  this  lost 
arm,  than  deprive  his  kind  heart  of  the  pleasure  of  his 
gift.  And  what  of  it  ?  Yesterday  I  did  not  care  a  straw 
for  an  almanac  ;  but  in  a  little  time  it  is  perhaps  the  very 
book  I  should  have  desired.  Every  day  has  its  to-mor 
row.  Besides,  I  assure  you  it  is  a  very  improving  study ; 
even  already  I  perceive  the  names  of  a  crowd  of  princes 
never  mentioned  in  history,  and  of  whom,  up  to  this  mo 
ment,  I  have  never  heard  any  one  speak." 

And  so  the  old  almanac  was  carefully  preserved  beside 
the  volume  of  poetry  it  had  been  intended  to  match ;  and 
the  old  invalid  never  failed  to  be  seen  turning  over  the 
leaves  whenever  our  friend  happened  to  enter  the  room. 
As  to  him,  he  was  quite  proud  of  its  success,  and  would 
say  to  me  at  each  time :  "  It  appears  I  have  made  him  a 
famous  present."  And  thus  the  two  guileless  natures 
were  content. 

Towards  the  close  of  my  sojourn  in  the  hospital,  the 
strength  of  poor  No.  12  diminished  rapidly.  At  first, 
he  lost  the  slight  powers  of  motion  he  had  retained  ;  then 
his  speech  became  inarticulate ;  at  last,  no  part  obeyed 
his  will,  except  the  eyes,  which  continued  to  smile  on  us 
still.  But  one  morning,  at  last,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  his 
very  glance  had  become  dim.  I  arose  hastily,  and  ap 
proaching  his  bed,  inquired  if  he  wished  for  a  drink ;  he 
made  a  slight  movement  of  his  eyelids,  as  if  to  thank 


TO   AN   ABSENTEE.  91 

me,  and  at  that  instant  the  first  ray  of  the  rising  sun 
shone  in  on  his  bed.  Then  the  eyes  lighted  up,  like  a 
taper  that  flashes  into  brightness  before  it  is  extinguished 
— he  looked  as  if  saluting  this  last  gift  of  his  Creator; 
and  even  as  I  watched  him  for  a  moment,  his  head  fell 
gently  on  the  side,  his  kindly  heart  ceased  to  beat.  He 
had  thrown  off  the  burden  of  To-day ;  he  had  entered 
on  his  eternal  To-morrow. 


TO  AN  ABSENTEE. 

O'ER  hill  and  dale,,  and  distant  sea, 

Through  all  the  miles  that  stretch  between, 

My  thought  must  fly  to  rest  on  thee, 

And  would,  though  worlds  should  intervene. 

Nay,  thou  art  now  so  dear,  methinks, 

The  farther  we  are  forced  apart, 
Affection's  firm  elastic  links 

But  bind  thee  closer  round  the  heart. 

For  now  we  sever  each  from  each, 

I  learn  what  I  have  lost  in  thee ; 
Alas  !  that  nothing  less  could  teach 

How  great,  indeed,  my  love  should  be ! 

Farewell !  I  did  not  know  thy  worth ; 

But  thou  art  gone,  and  now  'tis  prized : 
So  angels  walked  unknown  on  earth, 

But  when  they  flew  were  recognised. 


THE  WHITE  DOVE. 

THE  little  Lina  opened  her  eyes  upon  this  world  in 
the  arms  of  her  father,  the  good  Gotleib.  He  kissed 
the  child  with  a  holy  joy:  "For,"  said  he,  "now  is  a 
thought  of  God  fixed  in  an  eternal  form ;"  and  he  felt 
that  a  Divine  love  flowed  into  this  work  of  the  great 
God — this  also  thrilled  his  warm,  manly  heart  with  a 
wondrous  love.  He  felt  the  inmost  of  his  being  vibra 
ting  as  with  an  electric  touch,  to  the  inmost  of  the  little 
new-born  innocent.  But  the  rapture  of  the  young  father 
was  altogether  imperfect,  until  he  had  sealed  his  lips  in 
a  love-kiss  upon  those  of  the  fraulein  Anna,  who  lay 
there  so  white  and  beautiful  in  the  new  joy  of  a  young 
mother.  Like  an  innocent  maiden,  she  twined  her  arms 
around  Gotleib's  neck,  and  grew  strong  in  the  influx  of 
warm  life  that  flowed  into  her  responsive  cares  of  the 
husband  of  her  heart.  Then  Gotleib  held  up  the  newly- 
born  Lina,  and  the  mother's  lips  touched  the  soft  cheek 
of  the  tiny  little  one  with  a  living  rapture,  as  if  all  of 
Heaven  were  embraced  in  this  heart-possession. 

And  Gotleib  knelt  by  the  bedside,  and  thanked  God 
for  the  beautiful  gift  of  love  with  a  pious  awe  and  holy 
joy — large  tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  Anna.  As  he  rose 
from  his  reverent  posture,  he  kissed  off  the  bright  tears 
even  as  the  sun  exhales  dew-drops  from  a  pure  flower, 
and  said, 

"  Dost  thou  weep  for  joy,  sweet  one  ?' 

And  Anna  said, 


THE   WHITE  DOVE.  93 

"  Once — not  long  since — I  had  a  dream — a  beautiful 
dream — that  this  day  has  been  realized.  I  dreamed 
that  I  was  in  a  quite  heavenly  place — yet  the  place  was 
as  nothing — it  was  the  state — for  I  sat  with  an  infant  in 
my  arms — a  bright  innocent  little  one — and,  thou,  dear 
est  Gotleib,  knelt  beside  me ;  and  an  angel-woman  stood 
near  us,  in  a  soft  heavenly  glory,  and  said,  in  low  mu 
sical,  spirit-words — 'Behold  the  fruit  of  the  union  of 
good  and  truth.'  And  then,  methought,  thou  didst 
embrace  me  with  a  new  joy  of  love,  and  whispered,  '  an 
angel  of  God  is  born  of  us.'  This  little  one  is  the 
dream-child,  dear  Gotleib." 

Thus  beautiful  was  the  birth  of  the  little  Lina,  who 
grew,  daily,  in  a  pure  innocent  loveliness.  While  she 
is  expanding  in  the  first  days  of  her  new,  breathing, 
sensitive  life,  we  will  go  back  to  the  former  life  of  Got 
leib  and  Anna. 

Gotleib  Von  Arnheim  had  first  seen  the  light  in  this 
same  small  cottage,  on  the  confines  of  the  Black  Forest 
of  Germany.  He  was  born  with  a  large,  loving  heart. 
But  the  father  and  mother,  and  the  dear  God,  were  the 
only  beings  on  whom  his  affections  were  fixed ;  for  his 
sensitive  nature  shrank  from  the  contact  of  the  honest- 
hearted,  but  rough  peasant  neighbours,  that  made  the 
little  world  of  their  simple  life.  But  soon  death  came, 
and  the  good  father  left  the  earth  for  the  beautiful 
Heaven-world.  The  little  Gotleib  missed  his  kind  fa 
ther  ;  but  his  mother  told  him  of  the  bright  inner  life, 
and  how  his  father  yet  lived  and  loved  him ;  and  the 
heart  of  the  boy  was  comforted :  he  felt  a  sense  of  ele 
vation  in  having  his  father,  whom  he  had  known  so 


94  THE   WHITE   DOVE. 

familiarly  here  upon  earth,  now  the  companion  of 
angels,  and  living  in  such  a  bright  and  beautiful  world. 

Ah,  life  had  to  him  such  an  inner  beauty ;  and,  when 
still,  dreamy  moments  of  leisure  intervened  between  his 
work  and  play,  he  revelled  in  such  dreams  of  fancy,  as 
lent  light  and  life  and  joy  to  his  whole  being.  But  the 
death  of  the  kind  father  had  not  only  carried  the  boy's 
fancy  to  the  other  world ;  it  was  also  drawing  the  mo 
ther's  heart  away  to  the  fair  spirit-land.  Gotleib  saw 
his  mother's  face  growing  thin  and  pale ;  he  knew  that 
she  was  weak — for  oftentimes,  in  the  long  winter  even 
ings,  as  he  read  to  her  from  the  holy  word  of  God,  her 
hand  would  drop  wearily  with  the  raised  spindle,  and 
she,  who  was  never  before  idle,  would  fold  her  hands  in 
a  quiet,  meek  resignation.  At  such  times  a  tremour 
would  seize  the  boy's  heart.  The  mother  saw  it ;  and, 
one  night,  when  his  fixed  tender  gaze  rested  on  her,  she 
raised  her  spiritual  eyes  to  his,  and  said, 

"  Dear  Gotleib  !  thou  wilt  yet  have  the  good  God  to 
love." 

"Ah,  mother!  mother!"  cried  the  boy,  "wilt  thou, 
too,  leave  me?" 

His  head  was  bowed  upon  her  knees  in  bitter  grief, 
the  desolation  of  earth  was  spread  like  an  impenetrable 
pall  over  his  whole  future.  Suddenly  he  looked  up,  full 
of  a  strange,  bright  hope,  and  said, 

"  Mother,  I  too  may  die." 

Then  the  mother  put  off  her  weakness,  and  long  and 
loving  was  the  talk  she  held  with  her  dear  boy.  She 
told  him  that  from  a  little  one  he  had  ever  loved  God ; 
that  the  first  word  he  had  ever  pronounced  was  the  name 


THE   WHITE   DOVE.  95 

of  the  Holy  One.  She  had  taught  him  to  clasp  his  tiny 
baby  hands  and  look  up  and  say  "  God,"  ere  any  other 
word  had  passed  his  lips.  She  had  named  him  Gotleib, 
because  he  was  the  love  of  God  to  her,  and  he  was  to  be 
a  lover  of  God.  As  she  talked,  the  boy  grew  strong  and 
calm,  and  said, 

"  Yet,  oh,  my  mother !  God  is  so  great  for  the  heart 
of  a  small  child.  God  is  so  high  and  lifted  up  in  the 
far  heavens,  that  I  feel  myself  but  as  a  tiny  blade  of 
grass  that  looks  up  to  the  far  sun — dear  mother !  the 
earth  will  be  too  lonely ;  ah,  there  is  no  hope  but  in 
death." 

"No,  my  son,"  said  the  mother,  "there  is  a  beautiful 
hope  for  the  earth  also.  I  will  tell  you  what  will  make 
you  love  God  more  truly  than  ever." 

The  boy  was  fixed  attention. 

"  Thou  didst  not  know,  dear  Gotleib,  that  when  God 
created  thee  a  strong,  brave  boy,  He  also  created  a 
tender,  gentle  little  maiden,  like  unto  thee  in  all  things, 
save  thou  wert  a  boy  and  she  a  maiden.  Thou  wert 
strong  and  able  to  work,  and  she  gentle  and  born  to 
love  thee." 

"Where  is  she?"  inquired  the  excited  Gotleib. 

"  I  know  not,"  replied  the  mother.  "  But  God  knows, 
and  He  will  watch  over  the  two  whom  He  has  created, 
the  one  for  the  other ;  and,  on  earth,  or  in  heaven,  the 
two  will  meet.  Is  it  not  better,  then,  not  to  wish  to 
die,  but  to  leave  all  things  to  the  will  of  God?  For 
what  if  thy  little  maiden  is  left  alone  upon  the  earth, 
and  there  is  no  strong,  manly  heart  upon  which  she  may 
lean,  and  no  vigorous  arm  to  labour  for  her,  how  will 


96  THE  WHITE  DOVE. 

her  spirit  droop  with  a  weary,  lon'ely  sadness  ?  No,  my 
son,  live  !  and  the  joy  of  a  most  beautiful,  loving  com 
panionship  may  yet  be  thine.  The  earth  will  not  be 
desolate  ever  to  thy  orphan  heart,  with  this  beautiful 
hope  before  thee." 

Thus,  in  the  cold  wintry  night  of  a  dark  sorrow,  did 
the  good  mother  plant  a  living  seed  of  truth,  that 
afterwards  sprang  up  into  a  vernal  flowery  Eden,  that 
bloomed  in  the  boy's  heart  with  an  eternal  beauty. 

When  the  early  spring  came,  Gotleib  looked  calmly 
and  lovingly  on  the  beloved  mother,  who  was  leaving 
for  the  inner  world.  Death  was  beautiful  to  him  now ; 
it  was  simply  the  new  birthtime  of  a  mature,  living 
soul. 

The  spirit  of  the  mother's  love  seemed  to  linger  over 
the  home  of  his  childhood,  and  it  was  a  great  sorrow  to 
leave  the  cherished  spot ;  but,  his  mother  told  him  he 
was  to  seek  a  brother  of  hers  in  the  distant  town  of 
Heidelberg.  As  Gotleib  turned  from  the  now  voiceless 
home  of  his  parents,  a  fervent  desire  arose  in  his  heart 
that  he  might  again  be  permitted  to  dwell  beneath  this 
sheltering  roof  and  amidst  its  living  associations. 

The  boy  went  forth  into  the  unknown  world,  with  a 
living  trust  in  his  heart  in  the  great  God.  His  was  a 
simple,  childish  faith,  born  of  his  love — to  him  God  was 
not  a  mystery.  It  was  a  Divine  personality  he  loved. 
Jesus  had  walked  the  earth,  and  his  father  and  mother 
also — all  were  now  spirits,  none  the  less  to  be  loved 
and  trusted  than  when  upon  earth ;  but  now  they  were 
to  him  in  transcendent  states  of  glory.  The  Lord  Jesus, 
as  being  infinitely  great  and  glorious,  was  the  alone  One 


THE    WHITE   DOVE.  97 

to  whom  he  now  looked  for  help — though  ever  as  he 
knelt  to  pray  to  GOD,  he  felt  that  his  angel-mother 
bowed  with  his  spirit,  and  hy  her  prompting  beautiful 
words  of  humiliation  and  praise  came  to  him,  that  he 
himself  could  never  have  thought  of;  hence  the  affec 
tions  of  his  heart  all  grew  up  into  the  inner  spirit- world. 

And  years  passed  in  the  good  town  of  Heidelberg, 
years  that  brought  blessings  to  the  orphan  boy  as  they 
flew.  The  God  in  whom  he  trusted  had  provided  for 
him — had  awakened  a  friendly  kindness  in  many  warm 
hearts.  And  Gotleib,  who  was  at  first  designed  by  his 
relatives  to  spend  his  days  over  the  shoemaker's  awl  and 
last,  at  length  found  himself,  by  his  own  ardent  exer 
tions  and  the  helpful  kindness  of  others,  a  student  in 
the  University.  This  was  to  him  a  most  pure  gratifi 
cation — not  because  of  a  love  of  learning,  not  because 
of  ambition,  to  attain  a  position  before  his  fellow-men. 
Oh !  it  was  quite  otherwise  with  the  good  youth — he 
had  one  object  in  life.  The  hope  that  his  dying  mother 
had  awakened  in  his  heart  was  the  guiding  star  of  all 
his  efforts.  That  little  maiden  created  for  him,  and  to 
be  supported  by  him !  The  image  was  ever  before  him. 
Yes,  he  was  a  student  for  a  high  and  noble  use.  Science 
was  to  be  to  him  the  instrument  of  a  life  of  love  and 
blessedness.  To  do  good  to  others,  and  thus  to  provide 
for  the  maiden,  was  what  led  him  to  the  arduous  study 
of  "medicine. 

It  mattered  not  that  cold  and  hunger  and  toil  all 

bound  him  in  an  earthly  coil.    The  warm,  hopeful  heart 

has  a  wonderful  endurance.     The  delicate,  attenuated 

form  of  the  young  student  seemed  barely  sufficient  to 

7 


98  THE   WHITE   DOVE. 

hold  the  bright  and  glowing  spirit  that  looked  out  from 
his  soft  eyes,  when  he  received  his  degrees.  The  desire 
of  his  life  was  growing  into  a  fruition ;  and  when  he 
returned  to  his  poor  lodgings,  a  sense  of  freedom,  of 
gratitude,  and  of  delight,  crowned  his  yet  barren  life. 
To  work !  to  work !  seemed  now  the  one  call  of  his 
being ;  but,  whither  was  he  to  go  ?  There  was  the  child 
hood's  home,  to  which  his  heart  instinctively  turned ; 
but,  alone  and  desolate,  he  could  not  dwell  there. 
Gotleib  had  not  forgotten  his  mother's  lessons;  he 
knelt  and  prayed  to  God  for  guidance.  Even  as  he 
kneels,  and  feels  his  spirit  in  the  sunshine  of  God's 
presence,  there  is  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  good 
Professor  Eberhard  enters.  He  has  marked  the  student 
in  his  poverty  and  toil,  and  feels  that  he  will  now  hold 
out  a  helping  hand  to  the  young  beginner.  As  professor 
of  anatomy,  he  needs  the  quick  eye  and  delicate  hand 
of  an  expert  assistant. 

Gotleib  looked  upon  the  Herr  professor  as  Heaven 
sent,  and  in  a  few  days  was  installed  in  all  the  luxury 
of  a  life  of  active  use. 

Years  passed  away,  and  Gotlieb  Von  Arnheim  sighed 
with  a  man's  full  heart  for  a  woman's  sympathy  and 
responsive  affection.  He  had  seen  bright  eyes  gleam 
and  soft  cheeks  flush  at  his  approach,  and  he  had  looked 
wonderingly  into  many  a  sweet  face.  But  he  had  not 
yet  seen  the  little  maiden  of  whom  his  mother  spoke — 
who  was  to  be  the  reflex  of  himself.  All  these  German 
maidens  were  altogether  different  from — and  his  heart 
remained  unsatisfied  in  their  presence.  He  felt  no 
visions  of  eternity  as  he  looked  into  their  friendly  faces. 


THE   WHITE   DOVE.  99 

Sometimes  hope  almost  died  out.  But  his  trust  in  God 
seemed  to  forbid  the  death  of  this  sweet  hope.  Often 
he  said,  "the  good  God  would  not  have  created  this 
intense  desire  in  one  so  wholly  dependent  upon  Him, 
were  he  not  intending  to  satisfy  it."  At  all  events,  he 
thought — "  If  the  maiden  is  not  upon  earth,  she  is  in 
heaven."  So  ho.  worked  and  waited  patiently. 

The  wintry  winds  were  howling,  as  it  were,  a  wild 
requiem  over  the  lordly  ruins  of  the  crime-stained  castle 
of  Heidelberg.  Cold,  and  bitter,  and  clear  was  the 
starry  night,  when  the  weary  Gotleib  issued  out  of  the 
Herr  professor's  warm  house  to  answer  the  late  call  of 
a  sick  woman.  Gotleib  looked  up  into  those  illimitable 
depths  where  earths  and  suns  hang  suspended,  to  appeal 
to  the  material  perceptions  of  man  that  this  is  not  the 
alone  world — the  alone  existence.  The  silent  bright 
stars  comforted  the  earth-wearied  heart  in  which  the 
day's  toil  had  dimmed  the  spirit's  perception.  Gotleib 
stepped  on  bravely  through  the  frosty  darkness,  and 
said  hopefully  to  himself, 

"  There  is  yet  another  world — another  life  than  this." 

And  now  he  stood  before  the  house  in  which  his  ser 
vices  were  needed.  He  entered  a  chamber,  whose  bare 
poverty  reminded  him  of  his  student  days.  But  far 
sadder  was  cold  poverty  here,  for  a  lady  lay  on  a  hard 
couch  before  the  scantily  furnished  grate,  and  her  hol 
low  cough,  and  the  oozing  blood  that  saturated  her 
white  handkerchief,  rendered  all  words  unnecessary. 

A  young  girl,  with  blanched  cheek  and  tearless  eye  of 
agony,  knelt  by  the  wan  sufferer.  Gotleib  felt  himself 
in  the  sphere  of  his  life's  use ;  cold  and  fatigue  were 


100  THE   WHITE   DOVE. 

alike  gone.  The  sick  and  almost  dying  woman  seemed 
to  revive  under  his  touch — it  was  as  if  strength  flowed 
from  the  physician  into  the  patient.  His  very  presence 
diffused  an  air  of  hope  and  comfort  through  the  desolate 
apartment,  and  the  kind  serving-girl,  Bettina,  who  had 
guided  him  to  the  humble  lodging,  seconded  all  his 
active  efforts  to  produce  warmth  and  comfort,  and  soon 
returned  with  one  of  his  prescriptions — an  abundance 
of  fuel  for  the  almost  exhausted  grate.  The  cheerful 
blaze  threw  its  strong  light  upon  the  young  girl,  who 
at  first  knelt  in  hopeless  grief  beside  her  dying  mother. 

What  was  it  that  thrilled  the  heart  of  Gotleib,  as  he 
looked  upon  this  young  maiden  ?  Was  it  her  beauty  ? 
No !  he  had  seen  others  more  beautiful.  Was  it  her 
sorrow  ?  No  !  he  had  seen  others  quite  as  sad.  But, 
whatever  it  was,  Gotleib  felt  that  he  had  met  his  des 
tiny  ;  the  fulness  of  his  being  was  developed  to  him ; 
and,  all  unconsciously,  the  maiden  turned  to  him  as  the 
Providence  of  God  to  her.  She  seemed  to  rest  her 
troubled  heart  upon  his  strong  understanding.  He 
said  her  mother  would  not  die  immediately,  and  she 
grew  calm. 

It  was  very  late  that  night  when  Gotleib  retired; 
and  very  fervent  were  the  prayers  that  arose  from  his 
heart  before  he  slept.  He  felt  a  sense  of  gratitude  for 
the  uses  he  was  permitted  to  perform  to  his  fellow 
beings,  and,  in  his  prayers,  he  felt  that  light  shone  from 
the  Divine  sun  upon  that  sorrowing  maiden,  and  it  was 
as  if  she  knelt  by  his  side,  and  his  strong  spirit-arms 
upheld  her  in  the  sunshine  of  God's  love. 

When  the  morning  came,  Gotleib  awakened  with  a 


THE   WHITE    DOVE.  101 

delicious  sense  of  enjoyment  in  life — with  a  looking 
forth  into  the  events  of  the  day,  that  he  had  never 
before  experienced.  He  hastened  through  his  morning 
duties  with  an  elasticity  of  spirit  and  hope  that  was 
altogether  new  to  him.  Though,  as  yet,  his  feeling  was 
not  defined  into  a  thought,  it  was  a  faint  perception,  a 
dim  consciousness  that  the  elective  affinities  of  his  heart 
had  all  awakened.  And  while  he  thought  he  was  in  an 
excessive  anxiety  to  see  after  his  feeble  patient,  he  was 
borne  on  rather  by  the  attractions  of  his  heart's  love. 
He  paused  in  a  thrilling  excitement  of  hope  and  doubt 
before  the  door  of  the  poor  chamber — he  dreaded  to 
have  the  agreeable  impressions  of  the  last  evening  dissi 
pated.  But,  when  he  knocked,  a  light  tread  was  heard ; 
the  door  was  gently  opened,  and  the  pale  Anna  stood 
before  him,  with  such  a  gentle  grace,  and  so  earnest  a 
look  of  gratified  expectation,  that,  as  she  said  in  sub 
dued  tones, 

"  I  hoped  it  was  you,"  his  heart  bounded  with  exult 
ation,  to  think  that  the  young  girl  had  him  in  her 
thoughts.  But,  as  he  approached  the  sick  bed,  his 
reason  told  him  what  was  more  natural  than  her  wishing 
for  the  arrival  of  her  mother's  physician. 

A  careful  glance,  by  daylight,  around  the  humble 
apartment,  revealed  to  Gotleib  that  Anna  worked  with 
her  delicate,  white,  lady-looking  hands,  for  the  support 
of  her  dying  mother.  A  table,  placed  by  the  window, 
was  covered  with  artificial  flowers  of  exquisite  work 
manship,  and,  while  he  yet  lingered  in  the  chamber, 
Bettina,  the  maid,  entered  from  the  street  door,  with  a 
basket  filled  with  the  same  flowers — looked  at  Anna, 


102  THE   WHITE  DOVE. 

and  shook  her  head  mournfully.  The  young  girl's  lips 
quivered,  and  she  pressed  the  tears  back  when  she  saw 
no  purchaser  had  been  found  for  her  labour.  Gotleib 
saw  and  felt  with  the  most  intense  sympathy  all  that 
was  passing.  He  lingered  yet  longer — he  made  en 
couraging  remarks  to  the  sick  mother,  and,  at  length, 
ventured  to  approach  the  table,  and  gazed  with  admira 
tion  on  the  beautiful  flowers,  while  his  brain  was  busy 
in  devising  how  he  was  to  make  them  the  medium  of 
conveying  aid  to  the  suffering  mother  and  daughter. 
He  turned  to  the  faithful  Bettina,  who  clung  to  those 
whom  she  served  in  their  hard  poverty — he  told  her 
that  if  she  would  follow  him  he  would  find  a  purchaser 
for  the  pretty  flowers.  Anna  cast  upon  him  a  look  of 
tearful  smiling  gratitude,  and  her  simple,  "I  thank 
you,"  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  bound  him  as 
with  a  magnetic  chain  to  her  being.  Bettina  thought 
the  Herr  Doctor  was  a  most  generous  man,  for  he  more 
than  doubled  the  paltry  sum  she  asked  for  the  flowers ; 
though  she  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  mention  the 
fact  to  Anna,  she  merely  stated  to  her  that  she  had 
found  a  purchaser  for  as  many  flowers  as  she  chose  to 
make. 

But  Gotleib !  what  an  Eden  those  flowers  made  of  his 
chamber  !  with  what  a  joy  he  returned  to  it  after  hours 
of  absence ;  it  seemed  as  if  they  brought  him  into  con 
tact  with  the  sphere  of  a  beloved  existence.  He  exa 
mined  them  with  delight,  and  could  not  avoid  covering 
them  with  kisses.  Never  was  patient  visited  or  watched 
over  more  attentively  than  was  Madame  Hendrickson  ; 
and,  as  the  mother  revived,  the  daughter  seemed  to  feel 


THE   WHITE   DOVE.  103 

new  life.  Light  beamed  from  her  soft  eyes,  and  often 
times  Gotleib  thought  that  the  roses  that  bloomed  in  her 
delicate  face  were  far  more  beautiful  and  bright  than 
those  that  grew  under  her  light  and  skilful  touch. 

For  him  she  seemed  to  feel  an  earnest  trustful  grati 
tude.  She  never  concealed  her  glad  recognition  of  his 
coming ;  she  was  too  pure,  and  innocent,  and  good,  to 
think  it  necessary  to  conceal  anything.  And  Gotleib's 
visits  were  so  pleasant,  they  grew  longer  and  longer — 
for  he  and  Madame  Hendrickson  were  of  the  same 
religious  faith — and  he  had  a  peculiar  faculty  for  con 
soling  her.  Gotleib  spoke  of  the  other  world  with  such 
a  definite  perception  of  its  existences  and  modes  of 
being,  that  the  dying  woman  never  wearied  of  listening 
to  him.  The  high  and  true  faith  of  the  good  Gotleib 
opened  to  him  a  world  of  beauty,  which  he  poured  forth 
in  his  earnest  enthusiasm,  more  like  a  gifted  poet  than 
a  being  of  mere  prose.  Oftentimes,  as  he  talked,  the 
light  of  his  intelligence  seemed  to  gleam  back  from  the 
answering  eye  of  Anna,  until  his  whole  being  was  filled 
with  delight.  While  she  felt  that  her  hitherto  dim  and 
indistinct  faith  was  growing  into  form  and  fixedness, 
and  her  intellect  awakened  to  a  sphere  of  ideas,  to  a 
world  of  perceptions,  that  endowed  her  all  at  once  with 
a  charmed  existence,  and  flooded  her  with  the  light  of 
a  graceful  beauty  that  made  her  appear  to  the  admiring 
Gotleib  like  an  angelic  spirit. 

Thus  were  the  spirit  links  being  woven  through  the 
cold  bright  days  of  winter.  Madame  Hendrickson  was 
no  longer  confined  to  her  bed ;  and  on  the  Sabbath  days 
Anna  could  attend  the  public  worship  of  God,  of  whom, 


104  THE   WHITE   DOVE. 

now,  only  she  seemed  truly  to  learn.  It  was  to  the 
Holy  Supper  she  went  on  that  first  solemn  Sabbath  day, 
after  months  of  confinement  and  sorrow.  Oh !  how 
blessed  it  was  to  listen  to  the  Divine  Word,  through 
which  God  seemed  to  her  awakened  perception  to  shine, 
in  a  veiled  beauty !  and  when  she  tasted  the  wine  of 
spiritual  truth,  flowing  from  the  wisdom  of  the  Divine 
One,  and  ate  of  the  bread  of  the  celestial  good  of  His 
love,  Heaven  seemed  to  open  to  her  receptive  heart  and 
mind — and,  as  her  heart's  prayers  went  up  with  those 
of  the  shining  angels  round  the  throne  of  God,  it  was 
not  for  herself  that  she  prayed,  but  for  him  that  had 
spoken  living  truth  to  her  virgin  heart.  Oh,  the  good 
child  !  In  that  holy  moment  she  rejoiced  to  reveal  her 
heart's  love  to  the  Divine  Father ;  she  knew  that  her 
love  was  born  of  her  knowledge  of  God,  and  thus  she 
knew  that  it  was  blessed  from  above. 

As  she  passed  out  of  the  church,  she  encountered  the 
earnest  glance  of  surprised  and  delighted  recognition 
from  Gotleib.  Very  soon  he  was  at  her  side.  In  the 
fullness  and  stillness  of  her  beautiful  thoughts  and  satis 
fied  affections  they  walked  on.  Oh,  how  happy  the 
dear  mother  looked,  when  she  saw  the  two  enter  her 
lonely  chamber !  The  heavenly  light  and  warmth  of 
love  seemed  to  be  within  and  around  them  ;  and  she  saw 
that  two  beings  so  exactly  created  the  one  for  the  other, 
could  not  but  find  an  eternal  happiness  in  each  other. 
Gotleib  was  truly  in  one  of  his  genial,  sunny  moods ;  he 
seemed  to  soar  into  worlds  of  light ;  his  expanding  heart 
was  filling  with  the  glory  of  Heaven.  The  teachings  of 
his  childhood  were  all  brought  forth ;  he  talked  of  his 


THE   WHITE   DOVE.  105 

beloved  mother — now  an  angel  of  God — told  of  the 
beautiful  hope  she  awakened  in  his  heart  concerning  the 
little  maiden  created  by  God  for  him,  when  his  heart 
shrunk  in  such  pain  from  the  isolation  her  death  would 
leave  him  in.  Then  he  turned  to  the  blushing  Anna, 
and  said  he  thought  the  maiden  was  now  found.  She 
lifted  her  love-lighted  eyes  to  his — he  clasped  her  hand 
and  said  softly, 

"  Thou  art  mine !" 

"  I  am  thine,"  fell  responsive  from  the  maiden's  lips ; 
and  an  infinite  blessedness  flowed  into  the  loving,  satis 
fied  heart  of  Gotleib. 

The  next  day  brought  with  it  a  new  and  beautiful  joy, 
— a  letter  from  the  beloved  one,  conveyed  into  his  hand 
as  he  tenderly  pressed  hers,  at  parting.  For  this  his 
thirsty  soul  had  yearned — for  some  expression  of  the 
maiden's  heart-love  that  had  as  yet  gleamed  upon  him 
but  momentarily  from  her  modest  eyes.  But  alone  in 
his  chamber,  with  the  dear  letter  before  him  !  Ah,  now 
indeed  he  was  to  lift  the  veil  that  hid  his  life's  treasure. 
To  have  revealed  to  him  the  heart  and  mind  of  the 
beloved  one.  And  his  whole  being  went  forth  to  her  as 
he  read  the  tender  revealings.  She  wrote  : 

"  Gotleib  !  my  heart  would  fain  speak  to  thine.  It 
longs  to  say  gratefully,  '  I  love  thee,  thou  heaven-sent 
one.'  And  I  would  tell  thee  of  a  dream  that  came  to 
me  last  night  in  my  heart's  beautiful  happiness. 

"  I  was  reading  aloud  to  my  mother  in  the  book  you 
lent  me.  I  read  of  how  the  angels  ever  have  their  faces 
turned  to  the  Divine  Sun.  Of  how  their  shining  brows 
are  ever  attracted  to  this  central  point,  in  whatever 


106  THE  WHITE  DOVE. 

position  they  may  be — even  as  our  feet  are  attracted  to 
the  central  point  of  the  earth.  I  was  happy  in  this 
beautiful  truth,  and  felt  that  through  my  love  for  thee, 
my  thought  was  lifted  upward,  and  my  face,  too,  was 
turned  to  the  Lord ;  and  when  sleep  came,  it  seemed  as 
if  my  happy  spirit  was  conscious  of  a  new  and  beautiful 
existence.  I  found  myself  in  a  large  place,  and  a  com 
pany  of  angelic  spirits  surrounded  me ;  and  we  were 
seated  at  a  table,  adorned  with  an  exceeding  elegance, 
and  having  many  varieties  of  food,  of  which  we  partook, 
but  without  a  consciousness  of  taste — only  there  was  a 
genial  delight  of  mind  arising  from  the  mutual  love  of 
all  those  bright  ones.  An  angel-woman  spoke  to  me 
and  said,  *  This  is  the  Lord's  Supper ;  appropriate  to 
thyself  the  goods  and  truths  of  His  heavenly  kingdom.' 
While  she  thus  spoke,  I  saw  thee,  dear  Gotleib,  approach, 
with  such  a  smiling  and  beautiful  grace,  and  thou  saidst 
to  me,  holding  my  hand — '  Sweet  one !  how  bright  thou 
art !  Hast  thou  learnt  some  new  truth !  for  thou  art 
ever  bright,  when  thou  dost  perceive  a  new  truth !' 
Then  I  answered,  *  Ah,  yes,  indeed !  I  have  learned  a 
beautiful  new  truth ;'  and  I  led  thee  to  an  east  window 
and  pointed  upward  to  the  great  Sun,  that  shone  in  such 
a  Divine  effulgence — then  I  told  thee  how  the  angels 
were  held  by  the  attraction  of  love  in  this  centre  of 
being — even  as  the  children  of  the  world  are  held  by  the 
attraction  of  gravitation  to  the  earth — and  as  we  talked, 
the  light  shone  around  thee,  dear  Gotleib !  with  so 
heavenly  a  glory,  that  my  heart  was  filled  with  a  new 
love  for  thee.  For  I  saw,  truly,  that  thou  wert  a  child 
of  God,  and  in  loving  thee  I  loved  Him  who  shone  in 


THE   WHITE   DOVE.  107 

• 

such  a  radiant  glory  upon  thee.  Oh !  was  not  this  a 
pleasant  dream  ?  Gotleib !  what  worlds  of  beauty  thou 
hast  opened  to  me  !  Once  my  thought  was  so  narrow, 
BO  bound  down  to  the  earth ;  but  thou  hast  lifted  me 
above  the  earth.  A  woman's  heart  is  so  weak — it  is  like 
a  trailing  vine,  that  cannot  lift  itself  up  until  its  curling 
tendrils  are  wound  round  the  lofty  tree-tops  of  a  man's 
ascending  thought.  Gotleib,  thus  dost  thou  bear  me  up 
into  the  serene,  bright  heavens,  and  like  some  blooming 
flowery  vine  will  my  love  ever  seek  to  adorn  thy  noble 
thoughts." 

Gotleib  was  charmed  with  the  maiden's  thoughts. 
Oh,  yes — her  flowers  were  already  flying  over  his  highest 
branches.  She  soared  above  him,  and  through  her 
heavenly  truths  were  growing  clearer  to  him.  How 
grateful  he  was  to  his  Heavenly  Father,  that  from  his 
own  bosom,  as  it  were,  was  born  his  spirit's  companion. 
But  her  life  was  from  God — and  how  holy  was  her  whole 
being  to  him  !  She  was  enthroned  in  his  inmost  heart, 
to  be  for  ever  treasured  as  the  highest  and  best  gift  of 
God. 

It  was  evening  when  he  next  stood  beside  her.  The 
mother  slept,  and  Anna  and  Gotleib  stood  in  the  moon 
lit  window.  Few,  and  softly  whispered,  were  his  loving 
words  to  her.  But  she  smiled  in  a  oneness  of  thought, 
when  he  said, 

"  In  heaven,  the  sun  shone  upon  us ;  upon  earth  the 
cold  moonbeams  unite  us;  but  the  sunshine  will  soon 
come  again." 

Anna  felt  that  her  letter  had  made  Gotleib  very 
happy ;  and  she  bent  her  head  lovingly  on  his  manly 


108  THE   WHITE   DOVE. 

breast.  Oh !  to  him,  the  desolate  forlorn  one,  how 
thrilling  was  the  first  caress  of  the  maiden  !  His  lips 
touched  her  soft  white  hrows  with  a  delicious  new  joy. 
But  brow,  eyes,  cheeks,  and  lips,  were  soon  covered  with 
rapturous  kisses. 

Ah !  happy  youth  and  maiden,  thus  bedewed  with  life's 
nectar  of  blessedness !  What  are  earth's  sorrows  to 
you  ?  Heaven  is  in  you,  and  eternity  only  can  satisfy 
the  infinite  desires  of  such  hearts. 

But  as  the  days  passed,  the  material  body  of  the 
mother  wasted  away,  and  her  spirit  was  growing  bright 
in  its  coming  glory.  She  wished  much  to  see  her 
beloved  Anna  in  a  holy  marriage  union  before  she  left 
this  world.  So  a  few  weeks  after  the  betrothal,  Gotleib 
led  his  bride  to  the  marriage  altar.  It  was  a  festive 
scene  of  the  heart's  happiness  even  beside  the  bed  of 
death.  Madame  Hendrickson  felt  that  she,  too,  was 
adorning  for  a  beautiful  bridal — and  earthly  care  being 
thus  removed  from  her  heart,  she  was  altogether  happy. 

And  the  good,  true-hearted  Anna,  in  white  bridal 
garments  and  virgin  innocence,  looked  to  the  loving 
mother  and  happy  Gotleib  like  an  angel  of  God.  Even 
the  Professor  Eberhard  thought  thus,  and  quite  certain 
it  is,  that  the  good  minister  spoke  as  if  a  heavenly 
inspiration  flowed  into  him,  as  he  bound  the  two  into  an 
eternal  oneness  of  being.  "Little  children!"  said  he, 
"  love  one  another  !  was  the  teaching  of  the  great  God, 
as  he  walked  upon  the  earth.  Hence  love  is  the  holy 
of  the  holies.  And  it  flows  from  God  even  as  heat  flows 
from  the  material  sun — and  as  the  sun  is  in  its  own  heat 
and  light,  so  God  is  in  love." 


THE   WHITE   DOVE.  109 

And  taking  the  marriage  ring,  he  placed  it  on  the 
soft,  white,  rose-tipped  finger  of  the  bride,  and  said, 

"  How  beautiful  and  expressive  is  this  symbol  of  union, 
showing  the  conjunction  of  good  and  truth,  which  con 
junction  first  exists  in  the  Lord,  for  His  love  is  the 
inmost,  and  His  wisdom  is  like  the  golden  bond  of  truth 
encasing  and  protecting  love.  And  this  love  of  the 
Lord  flowing  into  man  is  received,  protected,  and 
guarded  by  woman's  truth,  until,  in  her  fitness  and  per 
fect  adaptation  to  him,  she  becomes  the  love  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  man's  love,  and  the  twain  are  no  longer 
two,  but  one." 

The  fresh  spring  days  were  now  coming — Madame 
Hendrickson  went  to  an  eternal  spring.  But  the  heart 
of  the  loving  Anna  rose  above  the  earthly  sorrow  of 
separation,  as  if  upheld  by  her  husband's  strong  faith ; 
her  imagination  delighted  itself  in  following  the  beloved 
mother  into  her  new  and  beautiful  state  of  being. 

Gotleib  felt  that  now  it  was  good  for  him  to  return  to 
the  home  of  his  childhood,  for  it  was  more  delightful  to 
live^apart  from  the  strife  and  toil  of  men.  In  the  simple 
country  life  much  good  might  be  done,  and  yet  there 
would  be  less  of  life's  sorrow  to  look  upon.  It  was 
weary  to  live  in  a  crowded  haunt,  where  a  perception  of 
vice  and  misery  so  mingled  itself  with  the  blessedness 
of  his  heart's  love.  Anna  was  charmed  and  delighted 
with  the  pure  country  life,  and  as  business  increased  on 
the  Herr  Doctor's  hands,  it  was  so  great  a  happiness  to 
her  to  minister  to  his  comfort.  After  the  long  winter 
rides,  how  she  chafed  his  cold  hands  and  warmed  his 
frozen  feet,  and  how  lovingly  she  helped  him  to  the  warm 


110  THE   WHITE   DOVE. 

suppers  of  the  good  Bettina,  no  homeless  and  desolate 
wanderer  of  earth  can  know.  But  to  Gotleib,  what  an 
inexpressible  blessedness  was  all  this ;  and  how  often  he 
left  off  to  eat,  that  he  might  clasp  Anna  to  his  heart  and 
cover  her  with  kisses  !  Thus  went  the  blessed  married 
life  until  another  spring  brought  with  it  the  sweet 
"dream-child,"  as  Anna  called  the  little  one,  whom  the 
angel  said,  was  "  the  fruit  of  the  union  of  good  and 
truth." 

The  little  Lina  thus  born  into  the  very  sphere  of  love, 
seemed  ever  a  living  joy.  The  father's  wisdom  guided 
the  mother's  tender  love,  and  the  little  one  was  good 
and  unselfish — and  so  gay  in  the  infantile  innocence  and 
grace  of  her  being,  that  oftentimes  the  young  mother, 
leaning  on  the  father's  bosom,  would  whisper, 
"  Gotleib,  she  is  indeed  an  angel  of  God." 
One  dark  and  wintry  day,  as  the  child  thus  sported 
in  the  inner  glad  light  and  joy  of  her  heart,  and  Gotleib 
and  Anna  as  usual  were  watching  the  light  of  her 
radiance,  a  beautiful  White  Dove  flew  fluttering  against 
the  friendly  window.  The  child  grew  still  iij  her 
wondrous  joy.  But  the  father  quickly  opened  the 
window,  and  the  half-frozen  bird  flew  in,  and  nestled 
itself  in  Anna's  bosom.  It  was  fed  and  warmed  and 
loved  as  bird  never  was  before.  For  the  little  one 
thought  it  was  the  spirit  of  God  come  down  upon  the 
house,  and  Gotleib  loved- it  because  to  him  it  was  a  living 
symbol  of  the  peace  and  purity  of  his  married  life,  and 
Anna  received  it  as  a  heavenly  gift  for  the  loving  child. 
Thus  both  literally  and  spiritually  the  White  Dove  of 
innocence  and  peace  dwelt  in  their  midst. 


HESTER. 

WHILE  Hester  lived,  the  day  was  bright 
With  something  more  than  common  light — 
'Twas  the  moon's  difference  to  the  night. 

As  summer  sun  and  summer  shower 
Revive  the  tree,  the  herb,  and  flower, 
Hers  was  the  gift  of  warmth  and  power. 

She  was  not  what  the  world  calls  wise ; 
Yet,  the  mute  language  of  her  eyes 
Was  worth  a  thousand  homilies. 

She  was  so  crystal  pure  a  thing, 
That  sin  to  her  could  no  more  cling 
Than  water  to  a  sea-bird's  wing. 

Like  memory-tones  heard  long  ago, 
Her  gentle  voice  was  soft  and  low, 
But  plaintive  in  its  underflow. 

Her  life  so  slowly  loosed  its  springs, 
Long  ere  she  passed  from  earthly  things, 
We  saw  the  budding  of  her  wings. 

She  lingered  so  in  taking  leave — 
Heaven  granted  us  a  long  reprieve — 
That  when  she  went  we  could  not  grieve. 

The  very  night  that  Hester  died, 
There  came  and  stood  my  couch  beside, 
A  gentle  spirit  glorified. 

And  often  in  my  darker  mood, 
When  evil  thoughts  subdue  the  good, 
I  see  her  clasp  the  holy  Rood. 

I  But  when  my  better  hopes  illume 
The  narrow  pathway  to  the  tomb, 
My  Hester's  presence  fills  the  room. 


THISTLE-DOWN. 

THERE  is  no  time  like  these  clear  September  nights, 
after  sunset,  for  a  revery.  If  it  is  a  calm  evening,  and 
an  intense  light  fills  the  sky,  and  glorifies  it,  and  you 
sit  where  you  can  see  the  new  moon,  with  the  magnifi 
cent  evening  star  beneath  it,  you  must  be  a  stupid  affair, 
indeed,  if  you  cannot  then  dream  the  most  heavenly 
dreams ! 

But  Rosalie  Sherwood,  poor  young  creature,  is  in  no 
dreaming  mood  this  lovely  Sabbath  night.  Her  heart 
is  crushed  in  such  an  utter  helplessness,  as  leaves  no 
room  in  it  for  hope :  her  brain  is  too  acutely  sensitive, 
just  now,  for  visions.  The  thistle-down,  in  beautiful 
fairy-like  procession,  floats  on  and  up  before  her  eyes, 
and  as  she  watches  the  frail  things,  they  assume  a  new 
interest  to  her ;  she  feels  a  human  sympathy  with  them. 
Like  the  viewless  winds  they  come,  from  whence  she 
knows  not ;  and  go,  whither  ?  none  can  tell.  They  are 
homeless,  and  she  is  like  them ;  but  she  is  not  as  they, 
purposeless. 

If  you  could  look  into  her  mind,  you  would  see  how 
she  has  nerved  it  to  a  great  determination ;  how  that, 
mustering  visions  and  hopes  once  cherished,  she  had 
gone  forward  to  a  bleak  and  barren  path,  and  stands 
there  very  resolute,  yet,  in  the  first  moment  of  her  re 
solve,  miserable ;  no,  she  had  not  yet  grown  strong  in 
the  suffering;  she  cannot  this  night  stand  up  and  bear 
her  burden  with  a  smile  of  triumph. 


THISTLE-DOWN*.  113 

Rosalie  Sherwood  was  an  only  child,  the  daughter 
of  an  humble  friend  Mrs.  Melville  had  known  from 
girlhood.  She,  poor  creature,  had  neither  lived  nor 
died  innocent. 

On  her  death-bed,  Cecily  Sherwood  gave  her  unre 
cognised  child  to  the  care  of  one  who  promised,  in  the 
sincerity  of  her  passion,  to  be  a  mother  to  the  unfortu 
nate  infant.  And  during  the  eighteen  years  of  that 
girl's  life,  from  the  hour  of  her  mother's  death  to  the 
day  when  she  was  left  without  hope  in  the  world,  Rosa 
lie  had  found  a  parent  in  the  rigid  but  always  kind  and 
just  Mary  Melville. 

This  widow  lady  had  one  son ;  he  was  four  years  old 
when  her  husband  died,  which  was  the  very  year  that 
the  little  Rosalie  was  brought  to  Melville  House.  The 
boy's  father  had  been  considered  a  man  of  great  wealth, 
but  when  his  affairs  were  settled,  after  his  decease,  it 
was  found  that  the  debts  of  the  estate  being  paid,  little 
more  than  a  competency  remained  for  the  widow.  But 
the  lady  was  fitted,  by  a  life  of  self-discipline,  even  in 
her  luxurious  home,  to  calmly  meet  this  emergency. 
With  the  remnant  of  an  imagined  fortune,  she  retired 
to  an  humbler  residence,  where,  in  quiet  retirement,  she 
gave  her  time  to  managing  household  affairs,  and  super 
intending  the  home  education  of  the  children. 

Her  son  Duncan,  and  the  young  Rosalie,  had  grown 
up  together,  until  the  girl's  twelfth  birth-day,  constant 
playmates  and  pupils  in  the  same  school.  No  one,  not 
even  the  busiest  busy-body,  had  ever  been  able  to  detect 
the  slightest  partiality  in  Mrs.  Melville's  treatment  of 
her  children ;  and,  indeed,  it  had  been  quite  impossible 


114  THISTLE-DOWN. 

that  she  should  ever  regard  a  child  so  winningly  beauti 
ful  as  Rosalie,  with  other  than  the  tenderest  affection. 
Under  a  light  and  careless  rein,  the  girl  had  been  a 
difficult  one  to  manage,  for  there  was  a  light  little  fire 
in  her  eyes,  that  told  of  strong  will  and  deep  passions ; 
and  besides,  her  striking  appearance  had  won  sufficient 
admiration  to  have  completely  spoiled  her,  if  a  guardian 
the  most  vigilant  as  well  as  most  discerning,  had  not 
been  ever  at  hand  to  speak  the  right  word  to  and  do  the 
right  thing  with  her. 

Mrs.  Melville  was  a  thoroughly  religious  woman,  and 
seriously  conscious  of  the  responsibility  she  incurred  in 
adopting  the  infant.  She  could  not  quiet  her  conscience 
with  the  reflection  that  she  had  done  a  wonderfully  good 
thing  in  giving  Rosalie  a  home  and  education ;  the 
chief  pity  she  felt  for  the  unfortunate  orphan,  led  her 
to  exercise  an  uncommon  care,  that  all  tendency  to  evil 
should  be  eradicated  from  the  heart  of  the  brilliant  girl 
while  she  was  yet  young ;  that  a  sense  of  right,  such  as 
should  prove  abiding,  might  be  impressed  on  her  tender 
mind.  And  her  labour  of  love  met  with  a  return  which 
might  well  have  made  the  mother  proud. 

There  had  been  no  officious  voice  to  whisper  to  Rosa 
lie  Sherwood  the  story  of  the  doubtful  position  which 
she  occupied  in  the  world.  She  was  an  orphan,  the 
adopted  child  of  the  lady  whom  she  devoutly  loved  with 
all  a  daughter's  tenderness ;  this  she  knew,  and  it  was 
all  she  knew ;  and  Mrs.  Melville  was  resolved  that  she 
should  never  know  more. 

The  son  of  the  widow  had  been  educated  for  the 
ministry.  He  was  now  twenty-two  years  old,  and  was 


THISTLE-DOWN.  ]15 

soon  to  be  admitted  to  the  priesthood.  In  this  he  was 
following  out  his  own  wish,  and  the  most  cherished  hope 
of  his  mother,  and  it  seemed  to  all  who  knew  him,  as 
though  the  Head  of  the  Church  had  set  his  seal  upon 
Duncan  from  his  boyhood.  He  was  so  mild  and  for 
bearing,  so  discreet  and  generous,  so  earnest  and  so 
honest ;  meek,  and  holy  of  heart,  was  the  thought  of 
any  one  who  looked  upon  his  placid,  youthful  face. 
Yet,  he  had,  besides  his  gentleness,  that  without  which 
hik  character  might  have  subsided  into  a  mere  puerile 
weakness ;  a  firmness  of  purpose ;  a  reverence  for  duty ; 
a  strict  sense  of  right,  equal  to  that  which  marked  his 
mother  among  women.  Duncan  Melville's  abilities 
were  of  a  high  order ;  perhaps  not  of  the  very  highest, 
though,  if  his  ambition  were  only  equal  to  his  powers, 
they  would  surely  seem  so  to  the  world. 

His  voice  had  a  sweet  persuasive  tone,  that  was  fitted 
to  win  souls,  yet  it  could  ring  like  a  clarion,  when  the 
grandeur  of  his  themes  fired  his  soul.  With-  the  warm 
est  hopes  and  the  deepest  interest,  they,  who  knew  the 
difficulties  and  trials  attending  the  profession  he  had 
chosen,  looked  on  this  young  man. 

Duncan  and  Rosalie  had  long  known  the  nature  of 
the  tie  which  bound  them  together — members  of  one 
family— and  they  never  called  themselves  brother  and 
sister,  after  the  youth  came  home  a  graduate  from  col 
lege.  For,  from  the  time  when  absence  empowered 
him  to  look  as  a  stranger  would  look  on  Rosalie,  from 
that  time  he  saw  her  elegant  and  accomplished,  and  be 
witching,  as  she  was,  and  other  than  fraternal  affection 
was  in  his  heart  for  her. 


116  THISTLE-DOWN. 

And  Rosalie,  too,  loved  him,  just  as  Duncan,  had  he 
spoken  his  passion,  would  have  prayed  her  to  love  him. 
She  had  long  ago  made  him  the  standard  of  all  manly 
excellence ;  and  when  he  came  back,  after  three  years 
of  absence,  she  was  not  inclined  to  revoke  her  early 
decision ;  therefore  was  she  prepared  to  read  the  lan 
guage  of  Duncan's  eyes,  and  she  consecrated  her  heart 
to  him. 

During  the  years  which  followed  his  return  from  col 
lege,  till  he  was  prepared  for  ordination,  as  a  priest,  he 
did  not  once  speak  to  her  of  his  love,  which  was  growing 
all  the  while  stronger  and  deeper,  as  the  river  course 
that,  flowing  to  the  ocean,  receives  every  day  fresh 
impetus  and  force  from  the  many  tiny  springs  that 
commingle  with  it.  Duncan  Melville  never  thought  of 
wedding  another  than  Rosalie  Sherwood. 

It  was,  as  I  said,  near  the  time  appointed  for  his  or 
dination,  when  he  felt,  for  the  first  time,  as  though  he 
had  a  right  to  speak  openly  with  her  of  all  his  hopes. 
He  asked  her,  then,  what,  in  soul  language,  he  had  long 
before  asked,  a  question  which  she  had  as  emphatically, 
in  like  language,  answered — to  be  his  partner  for  life, 
in  weal  or  woe. 

He  had  tried  to  calmly  consider  Rosalie's  character 
as  a  Christian  minister  should  consider  the  character 
of  her  whom  he  would  make  the  sharer  of  his  peculiar 
lot ;  and  setting  every  preference  aside,  Duncan  felt 
that  she  was  fitted  to  assist,  and  to  bear  with  him.  She 
was  truthful  as  the  day,  strong-minded  and  generous ; 
humane  and  charitable :  and  though  no  professor  of 
religion,  a  woman  full  of  reverence  and  veneration. 


THISTLE-DOWN.  117 

He  knew  that  it  was  only  a  fear  that  she  should  not 
adorn  the  Christian  name,  that  kept  her  back  from  the 
altar  of  the  church,  and  he  loved  her  for  that  spirit  of 
humility,  knowing  that  she  was  "  on  the  Lord's  side," 
and  that  grace,  ere  long,  would  be  given  to  her,  to  pro 
claim  it  in  doing  all  His  commandments. 

It  was  certainly  with  a  joyful  and  confident  heart 
that,  after  he  had  spoken  with  Rosalie,  Duncan  sought 
his  mother,  to  tell  her  of  the  whole  of  that  bright  future 
which  opened  now  before  him. 

How  then  was  he  overcome  with  amazement  and 
grief  when  Mrs.  Melville  told  him  it  was  a  union  to 
which  she  could  never  consent !  Then,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  the  astonished  young  man  heard  of  that 
stain  which  was  on  the  name  poor  Rosalie  bore. 

He  heard  the  story  to  the  end,  and,  with  a  decision 
and  energy  that  would  have  settled  the  matter  with 
almost  any  other  than  his  mother,  he  declared, 

"  Yet  for  all  that,  I  will  not  give  her  up." 

"  It  would  not  be  expected  that  you  would  fulfil  the 
engagement.  Rosalie  herself  would  not  allow  it,  if  she 
knew  the  truth  of  the  matter." 

"  But  she  need  not  know  it.  There  is  no  existing 
necessity.  Is  it  not  enough  that  she  is  good  and  pre 
cious  to  me  ?  She  is  a  noble  woman,  whose  life  has 
been,  thanks  to  your  guidance,  beautiful  and  lofty." 

"  God  knows,  I  have  striven  to  do  my  duty  by  her, 
but  I  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  I  had  ever 
thought  you  would  wish  to  change  your  relations  with 
her,  Duncan." 


118  THISTLE-DOWN. 

"  The  world  has  not  her  equal !  It  is  cruel — it  is 
sinful — in  you,  mother,  to  oppose  our  union." 

"  She  is  a  lovely  woman ;  but,  my  son,  there  are 
myriads  like  her." 

"No,  not  one!  Tell  me  you  will  never  breathe  a 
word  of  what  you  have  told  me  to  her!" 

"Never." 

"  Oh !  thank  you !  thank  you,  mother !  you  could  not 
wish  another  daughter." 

"But  for  that  I  have  told  you,  I  could  not  wish 
another." 

"  Then  I  say  you  must  not  work  this  great  injustice 
on  us.  Rosalie  loves  me.  She  has  promised  to  be 
mine.  You  will  break  my  heart." 

"  You  are  deluded  and  strongly  excited,  my  son,  or 
you  would  never  speak  so  to  me,"  said  the  mother,  with 
that  persisting  firmness  with  which  the  physician  resorts 
to  a  desperate  remedy  for  a  desperate  disease.  Then 
she  spoke  to  him  of  all  the  relations  in  life  he  might- 
yet  be  called  upon  to  assume  ;  of  the  misery  which  very 
possibly  might  follow  this  union  in  after  days.  Hours 
passed  on,  and  the  conference  was  not  ended,  until, 
with  a  crushed  heart,  and  a  trembling  voice,  Duncan 
arose,  abruptly,  while  his  mother  yet  spoke,  and  he  said, 

"  If  the  conclusion  to  which  you  have  urged  me,  in 
God's  sight,  is  just,  He  will  give  me — He  will  give  Ro 
salie,  too — strength  to  abide  by  it.  But  I  can  never 
speak  to  her  of  this,  and  I  must  find  another  home  than 
yours  and  hers.  You  must  speak  for  me,  mother ;  and 
let  me  charge  you,  do  it  gently.  Do  not  tell  her  all. 
Let  her  think  what  she  will,  believe,  as  she  must,  that 


THISTLE-DOWN.  119 

I  ain  a  wretch,  past  pardon ;  but  do  not  blight  her  peace 
by  telling  all" 

"I  promise  you,  Duncan,"  was  the  answer,  spoken 
through  many  tears,  and  in  the  deepest  sorrow. 

An  hour  after,  he  was  on  the  way  from  the  village 
that  he  might  spend  the  coming  Sabbath  in  another 
town. 

And,  after  he  was  gone,  the  mother  sought  her 
younger,  her  dearly  loved  child.  Rosalie  heard  that 
familiar  step  on  the  stairway ;  she  had  seen  Duncan 
hurrying  away  from  the  house,  and  she  knew  the  con 
ference  was  over ;  but  she  had  no  fear  for  the  result. 
So  she  hushed  the  glad  tumultuous  beating  of  her  heart, 
and  tried  to  veil  the  brightness  of  her  eyes  as  she  heard 
the  gentle  tapping  at  her  door  that  announced  the  mother 
coming. 

As  for  Mrs.  Melville,  her  heart  quite  failed  her  when 
she  went  into  the  pleasant  room,  and  sat  down  close  by 
Rosalie.  In  spite  of  all  the  strengthening  thoughts  of 
duty  which  she  had  taken  with  her  as  a  support  in  that 
interview,  she  was  now  at  a  sore  loss,  for  it  had  been  a 
bitter  grief  to  her  kind  heart  when,  of  old,  for  duty's 
sake,  she  made  her  children  unhappy.  How  then  could 
she  endure  to  take  away  their  life's  best  joy,  their  rich 
est  hope  ?  It  was  a  hard  thing ;  and  many  moments 
passed  before  she  could  nerve  her  strong  spirit  to  utter 
the  first  word.  Rosalie,  anxious  and  impatient,  too, 
but  unsuspecting,  at  last  exclaimed, 

"  What  can  it  be  that  so  much  troubles  you,  mother  ?" 

Then  Mary  Melville  spoke,  but  with  a  voice  so  soft 


120  THISTLE-DOWN. 

and  sad,  so  faint  with  emotion,  that  it  seemed  not  at  all 
her  voice.  She  said, 

"I  want  you  to  consider  that  what  I  say  to  you,  dear 
child,  has  given  me  more  pain  even  to  think  of  than  I 
have  ever  felt  before.  Duncan  has  told  me  of  your  en 
gagement  to  marry  with  him ;  and  it  has  been  my  duty, 
my  most  sorrowful  duty,  oh !  believe  me,  to  tell  him 
that  such  a  tie  must  never  unite  you.  He  can  never  be 
your  husband ;  you  can  never  be  his  wife." 

She  paused,  exhausted  by  her  emotion;  she  could 
not  utter  another  syllable.  Rosalie,  who  had  watched 
her  with  fixed  astonishment  as  she  listened  to  the  words, 
was  the  first  to  speak  again,  and  she  tried  to  say, 
calmly, 

"  Of  course,  you  have  a  reason  for  saying  so.  It  is 
but  just  that  I  should  know  it." 

"  It  cannot  be  known.  If  I  had  ever  in  my  life  de 
ceived  you,  Rosalie,  you  might  doubt  me  now,  when  I 
assure  you  that  an  impediment,  which  cannot  be  named, 
exists  to  the  marriage.  Have  I  not  been  a  mother  to 
you  always?"  she  asked,  appealingly,  imploringly:  "I 
love  you  as  I  love  Duncan,  and  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart 
to  grieve  you." 

"  Has  Duncan  given  you  an  answer?" 

"  Yes,  Rosalie." 

"And  it ?" 

"He  has  trusted  to  his  mother!"  she  said,  almost 
proudly. 

"Rather  than  me,"  quickly  interrupted  Rosalie. 

"  Rather  than  do  that  which  is  wrong ;  which  might 
hereafter  prove  the  misery  of  you  both,  my  child." 


THISTLE-DOWN.  121 

"  Where  is  he  ?  Why  does  he  not  coine  himself  to 
tell  me  this  ?  If  the  thing  is  really  true,  Jiis  lips  should 
have  spoken  it,  and  not  another's." 

"  Oh !  Rosalie,  he  could  not  do  it.  I  believe  his 
heart  is  broken.  Do  not  look  so  upon  me.  Is  it  not 
enough  that  I  bitterly  regret,  that  I  shall  always  de 
plore,  having  not  foreseen  the  result  of  your  companion 
ship  ?  Say  only  that  you  do  bielieve  I  have  striven  to 
do  the  best  for  you  always,  as  far  as  I  knew  how.  I 
implore  you,  say  it." 

"  Heaven  knows  I  believe  it,  mother.  When  will 
Duncan  come  home  again  ?" 

"Monday;  not  before." 

When  Monday  morning  came,  on  the  desk  in  Rosalie's 
room  this  letter  was  found : — 

"  I  cannot  leave  you  for  ever,  Duncan ;  I  cannot  go 
from  your  protecting  care,  mother,  without  saying  all 
that  is  in  my  heart.  I  have  no  courage  to  look  on  you, 
my  brother,  again.  Mother  !  our  union,  which  we  had 
thought  life-lasting,  is  broken.  I  cannot  any  longer 
live  in  the  world's  sight  as  your  daughter  by  adoption. 
I  would  have  done  so.  I  would  have  remained  in  any 
capacity,  as  a  slave,  even,  for  I  was  bound  by  gratitude 
for  all  that  you  have  done  for  me,  to  be  with  you  always 
— at  least  so  long  as  you  could  wish.  If  you  had  un 
veiled  the  mystery,  and  suffered  me  to  stand  before 
you,  recognising  myself  as  you  know  me,  I  would  have 
stayed.  I  would  have  been  to  you,  Duncan,  6nly  as  in 
childhood — a  proud  yet  humble  sister,  rejoicing  in  your 
triumphs,  and  sharing  by  sympathy  in  your  griefs.  I 
would  have  put  forth  fetters  on  my  heart ;  the  in-dwell- 


122  THISTLE-DOWN. 

ing  spirit  should  henceforth  have  been  a  stranger  to  you. 
I  know  I  could  have  borne  even  to  see  another  made 
your  wife ;  but  in  a  mistaken  kindness  you  put  this 
utterly  beyond  my  power.  Too  much  has  been  required, 
and  I  am  found — wanting !  If  even  the  most  miserable 
fate  that  can  befall  an  innocent  woman  ;  if  the  curse  of 
illegitimacy  were  upon  me,  I  could  bear  that  thought 
even,  and  acknowledge  the  justice  and  wisdom  that  did 
not  consider  me  a  fit  associate  for  one  whose  birth  is 
recognised  by  a  parent's  pride  and  fondness. 

"  But,  dear  Mrs.  Melville,  I  must  be  cognisant  of  the 
relation,  whatever  it  is,  that  I  bear  you.  I  cannot,  I  will 
not,  consent  to  appear  nominally  your  daughter,  when 
you  scorn  to  receive  me  as  such. 

'•'•Mother — in  my  dear  mother's  name,  I  thank  you 
for  the  generous  love  you  have  ever  shown  me  :  for  the 
generous  care  with  which  you  have  attended  to  the  de 
velopment  of  the  talents  God  gave  me.  For  I  am  now 
fitted  to  labour  for  myself.  I  thank  you  for  the  watch 
ful  guardianship  that  has  made  me  what  I  am,  a  woman 
— self-reliant  and  strong.  I  thank  you  for  it,  from  a 
heart  that  has  learned  only  to  love  and  honour  you  in 
the  past  eighteen  years.  And  I  call  down  the  blessings 
of  the  infinite  God  upon  you,  as  I  depart.  Hereafter, 
always,  it  will  be  my  endeavour  to  live  worthily  of  you 
— to  be  all  that  you  have,  in  your  more  than  charity, 
capacitated  me  to  be.  Duncan,  you  will  not  forget  me  ? 

"  I  do  not  ask  it.  But  pray  for  me,  and  live  up  to 
the  fullness  of  your  being — of  your  heart  and  of  your 
intellect.  There  is  a  happy  future  for  you.  I  have  no 
word  of  counsel,  no  feeble  utterance  of  encouragement 


THISTLE-DOWN.  123 

to  leave  you — yon  will  not  need  such  from  me.  God 
bless  and  strengthen  you  in  every  good  word  and  work 
— it  shall  be  the  constant  hope  of  the  sister  who  loves 
you.  Mother,  farewell !" 

This  letter  was  written  on  the  Sabbath  eve  on  which 
our  story  opens — written  in  a  perfect  passion — yes,  of 
grief,  and  of  despair.  The  anger  that  Rosalie  may  at 
first  have  felt,  gave  way  to  the  wildest  sorrow  now,  but 
her  resolution  was  taken,  and  her  heart  was  really  strong 
to  bear  the  resolution  out. 

After  the  sudden  and  most  unlooked-for  disappear 
ance,  the  mother  and  son  sought  long,  and  I  need  not 
say  how  anxiously,  for  Rosalie.  But  their  search  was 
vain,  and,  at  last,  as  time  passed  on,  she  became  to  the* 
villagers  as  one  who  had  never  been.  But  never  by 
the  widow  was  she  forgotten ;  and  oh !  there  was  in  the 
world  one  heart  that  sorrowed  with  a  constant  sorrow, 
that  hoped  with  a  constant  hope  for  her. 

He  had  lost  her,  and  Duncan  sought  for  no  other  love 
among  women.  When  all  his  searching  for  Rosalie 
proved  unavailing,  the  minister  applied  himself  with 
industry  to  the  work  of  his  calling,  and  verily  he  met 
here  with  his  reward ;  for  as  he  was  a  blessing  to  the 
people  of  his  parish,  in  time  they  almost  adored  him. 
He  was  a  spiritual  physician  whom  God  empowered  to 
heal  many  a  wounded  and  stricken  heart ;  but  there  was 
a  cross  of  suffering  that  he  bore  himself,  which  could 
not  be  removed.  It  was  his  glory  that  he  bore  it  with 
martyr-like  patience — that  he  never  uttered  a  reproach 
ful  word  to  her  through  whom  he  bore  it. 

As  years  passed  away,  the  gifted  preacher's  impas- 


124  THISTLE-DOWN. 

sioned  eloquence,  and  stirring  words,  bowed  many  a 
proud  and  impenitent  soul  with  another  love  than  that 
he  wished  to  inspire,  still  he  sought  not  among  any  of 
them  companionship,  or  close  friendship.  They  said,  at 
last,  considering  his  life  spent  in  the  most  rigid  perform 
ance  of  duty,  that  "  he  was  too  high-church  to  marry" — 
that  he  did  not  believe  such  union  consonant  with  the 
duties  of  the  cloth  !  But  the  mother  knew  better  than 
this — she  knew  a  name  that  was  never  spoken  now  in 
Rosalie's  old  home,  that  was  dearer  than  life  to  the 
heart  of  her  son ;  and  desolate  and  lonely  as  he  oft- 
times  was,  she  never  dared  ask  him  to  give  to  her  a 
daughter — to  take  unto  himself  a  wife. 

In  a  splendid  old  cathedral  a  solemn  ceremonial  was 
going  forward,  on  the  morning  of  a  holy  festival.  A 
bishop  was  to  be  consecrated. 

A  mighty  crowd  assembled  to  witness  the  ceremony, 
and  the  mother  of  Duncan  Melville  was  there,  the  hap 
piest  soul  in  all  that  company,  for  it  was  on  her  son  that 
the  high  honour  was  to  be  laid. 

How  beautiful  was  the  pale,  holy  countenance  of  the 
minister,  who,  in  the  early  strength  of  his  manhood,  was 
accounted  worthy  to  fill  that  great  office  for  which  he 
was  about  to  be  set  apart !  He  was  a  man  "  acquainted 
with  grief," — you  had  known  it  by  the  resigned,  sub 
missive  expression  of  his  face ;  you  had  known  that  the 
passions  of  mortals  had  been  all  but  chilled  in  him,  by 
the  holy  light  in  his  tranquil  eyes.  Duncan  had  toiled 
— he  had  born  a  burden ! 

A  thousand  felt  it,  looking  on  the  noble  front  where 


THISTLE-DOWN  125 

religion  undefiled,  and  peace,  and  holy  love,  and  charity, 
had  left  for  themselves  unmistakable  evidences :  and, 
more  than  all,  one  being  felt  it  who  had  not  looked  upon 
that  man  for  years — not  since  the  lines  of  grief  and 
care  had  marked  the  face  and  form  of  Duncan  Melville. 
There  was  reason  for  the  passionate  sobs  of  one  heart, 
crushed  anew  in  that  solemn  hour;  there  was  pathos 
such  as  no  other  voice  could  give  to  the  prayers  which 
went  up  to  God  from  one  woman's  heart,  in  the  great 
congregation,  for  him.  Poor,  loving,  still-beloved  Ro 
salie!  She  was  there,  her  proud,  magnificent  figure 
bent  humbly  from  the  very  commencement  to  the  close 
of  the  ceremonial ;  there,  her  beautiful  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  love,  and  grief,  and  despair,  and  pride ;  there, 
crushed  as  the  humblest  flower — the  glorious  beauty ! 

And  the  good  man  at  the  altar,  for  whom  the  prayers 
and  the  praise  ascended,  thought  of  her  in  that  hour ! 
Yes,  in  that  very  hour  he  remembered  how  one  would 
have  looked  on  him  that  day,  could  she  have  come,  his 
wife,  to  witness  how  his  brethren  and  the  people  loved 
and  honoured  him.  He  thought  of  her,  and  as  he  knelt 
at  the  altar,  even  there  he  prayed  for  her ;  but  not  as 
numbers  thought  upon  the  name  of  Rosalie  Sherwood 
that  day;  for  she  also  was  soon  to  appear  before  a 
throng,  and  there  was  a  myriad  hearts  that  throbbed 
with  expectancy,  and  waited  impatiently  for  the  hour 
when  they  should  look  upon  her. 

Bishop  Melville  had  retired  at  noonday  to  his  study, 
that  he  might  be  for  a  few  moments  alone.  He  was 
glancing  over  the  sermon  the  was  to  deliver  that  after 
noon,  when  his  mother,  his  proud  and  happy  mother, 


126  THISTLE-DOWN. 

came  quickly  into  the  room,  laid  a  sealed  note  on  the 
table  and  instantly  withdrew,  for  she  saw  how  he  was 
occupied.  When  he  had  finished  his  manuscript,  the 
bishop  opened  the  note  and  read — could  it  have  been 
with  careless  eyes  ? 

"  Duncan,  I  have  knelt  in  the  house  of  the  Lord,  to 
day,  and  witnessed  your  triumph.  Ten  years  ago,  when 
I  went  desolate  and  wretched  from  your  house,  I  might 
have  prophesied  your  destiny.  Come,  to-night,  and 
behold  my  triumph — at — the  opera-house  ! 

"Your  sister,  ROSALIE." 

Do  you  think  that,  as  he  read  that  summons,  he  hesi 
tated  as  to  whether  he  should  obey  it  ?  If  his  bishopric 
had  been  sacrificed  by  it,  he  would  have  gone ;  if  dis 
grace  and  danger  had  attended  his  footsteps,  he  would 
have  obeyed  her  bidding !  The  love  which  had  been 
strengthening  in  ten  long  years  of  loneliness  and  bereave 
ment,  was  not  now  to  stop,  to  question  or  to  fear. 

"  Accompany  me,  dear  mother,  this  evening  ;  I  have 
made  an  engagement  for  you,"  he  said,  as  he  went,  she 
hanging  on  his  arm,  to  the  cathedral  for  afternoon 
service. 

"Willingly,  my  son,"  was  the  instant  answer,  and 
Duncan  kept  her  to  her  word. 

But  it  was  with  wondering,  with  surprise  that  she  did 
not  attempt  to  conceal,  and  with  questions  which  were 
satisfied  with  no  definite  reply,  that  Mrs.  Melville  found 
herself  standing  with  her  son  in  an  obscure  corner  of 
the  opera-house  that  night.  Soon  all  her  expressions 
of  astonishment  were  hushed,  but  by  another  cause 
than  the  mysterious  inattention  of  her  son :  a  queenly 


THISTLE-DOWN.  127 

woman  appeared  upon  the  stage ;  she  lifted  her  voice, 
and  sobbed  the.  mournful  wail  which  opens  the  first 
scene  in . 

For  years  there  had  not  been  such  a  sensation  created 
among  the  frequenters  of  that  place,  as  now,  by  the 
appearance  of  this  stranger.  The  wild,  singular  style 
of  her  beauty  made  an  impression  that  was  heightened 
by  every  movement  of  her  graceful  figure,  every  tone 
of  her  rich  melodious  voice.  She  seemed  for  the  time 
the  very  embodiment  of  the  sorrow  to  which  she  gave 
an  expression,  and  the  effect  was  a  complete  triumph. 

Mary  Melville  and  her  son  gazed  on  the  debutante — 
they  had  no  word,  no  look  for  each  other:  for  they 
recognised  in  her  voice  the  tones  of  a  grief  of  which 
long  ago  they  heard  the  prelude — and  every  note  found 
its  echo  in  the  bishop's  inmost  heart. 

"  Come  away  !  let  us  go  home  I  Duncan,  this  is  no 
place  for  us — for  you.  It  is  disgrace  to  be  here,"  was 
the  mother's  passionate  plea,  when  at  last  Rosalie  dis 
appeared,  and  other  forms  stood  in  her  place. 

"We  will  stay  and  save  her,"  was  the  answer,  spoken 
with  tears  and  trembling,  by  the  man  for  whom,  in  many 
a  quiet  home,  prayers  in  that  very  hour  ascended.  "  She 
is  mine  now,  and  no  earthly  consideration  or  power  shall 
divide  us." 

And  looking  for  a  moment  in  her  son's  face  stead 
fastly,  the  lady  turned  away  sighing  and  tearful,  for 
she  knew  that  she  must  yield  then,  and  she  had  fears 
for  the  future. 

A  half-hour  passed  and  the  star  of  the  night  reap 
peared,  resplendent  in  beauty,  triumphing  in  hope;- 


128  THISTLE-DOWN. 

again  her  marvellous  voice  was  raised,  not  with  the  bitter 
cry  of  despair  that  was  hopeless,  but  glad  and  gay, 
angelic  in  its  joy. 

Again  the  mother's  eyes  were  turned  on  him  beside 
her — and  a  light  was  on  that  pale  forehead — a  smile  on 
that  calm  face — a  gladness  in  those  eyes — such  as  she 
had  not  seen  there  in  long,  long  years ;  but  though  she 
looked  with  a  mother's  love  upon  the  one  who  stood  the 
admiration  of  all  eyes,  crowned  with  the  glory-crown  of 
perfection  in  her  art,  she  could  not  with  Duncan  hope. 
For,  alas !  her  woman-heart  knew  too  well  the  ordeal 
through  which  the  daughter  of  her  care  and  love  must 
have  passed  before  she  came  into  that  presence  where  she 
stood  now,  who  could  tell  if  still  the  mistress  of  herself 
and  her  destiny  ?  who  could  tell  if  pure  and  undefiled  ? 

That  night  and  the  following  day,  there  were  many 
who  sought  admittance  to  the  parlours  of  Rosalie  Sher 
wood  ;  they  would  lay  the  homage  of  their  trifling  hearts 
at  her  feet.  But  all  these  sought  in  vain ;  and  why  was 
this  ?  Because  such  admiring  tribute  was  not  whai  the 
noble  woman  sought ;  and  because,  ere  she  had  risen  in 
the  morning,  a  letter,  written  in  the  solitude  of  night, 
was  handed  to  her,  which  barred  and  bolted  her  doors 
against  the  curious  world. 

"  Rosalie  !  Rosalie  !  look  back  through  the  ten  years 
that  are  gone ;  I  am  answering  your  letter  of  long  ago 
with  words ;  I  have  a  thousand  times  answered  them 
with  my  heart,  till  the  thoughts  which  have  crowded 
there,  filled  it  almost  to  breaking.  We  have  met — met 
at  last — you  and  I !  But  did  you  call  that  a  triumph 
when  you  stood  in  God's  house,  and  saw  them  lay  their 


THISTLE-DOWN.  129 

consecrating  hands  upon  me  ?  Heaven  forgive  me  !  I 
was  thinking  of  you  then — and  thinking,  too,  that  if  this 
honour  was  in  any  way  to  be  considered  a  reward,  the 
needful  part  was  wanting — you  were  not  there  !  ^  et 
you  were  there,  you  have  written  me ;  ah !  but  iiot 
Rosalie,  my  wife,  the  woman  I  loved  better  than  all  on 
earth — the  acknowledged  woman,  her  whose  memory  I 
have  borne  about  with  me  till  it  was  a  needful  part  of 
my  existence.  You  were  by  when  the  people  came  to 
see  me  consecrated — and  I  obeyed  your  call ;  I  saw  you 
when  the  people  anointed  you  with  the  tears  of  their 
admiration  and  praise.  If  you  read  my  heart  at  all, 
to-day,  you  knew  how  I  had  suffered — you  saw  that  I 
had  grown  old  in  sorrow.  Was  I  mistaken  to-night  in 
the  thought  that  you,  too,  had  not  been  unmindful  of 
our  past ;  that  you  were  not  satisfied  with  the  popular 
applause;  that  you,  also,  have  been  lonely,  that  you 
have  wept ;  that  you  have  trodden  in  the  path  of  duty 
with  weariness  ? 

"  There  is  but  one  barrier  now  in  the  wide  world  that 
shall  interpose  between  us — Rosalie,  it  is  your  own  will. 
If  I  was  ever  anything  to  you,  I  beseech  you  think 
calmly  before  you  answer,  and  do  not  let  your  triumph, 
to-night,  blind  you  to  the  fact  which  you  once  recog 
nised,  which  can  make  us  happy  yet.  I  trust  you  as  in 
our  younger  days ;  nothing,  nothing  but  your  own  words 
could  convince  me  that  you  are  not  worthy  to  take  the 
highest  place  among  the  ladies  of  this  land.  Oh,  let 
the  remembrance  that  I  have  been  faithful  to  you 
through  all  the  past,  plead  for  me,  if  your  pride  should 
9 


130  THISTLE-DOWN. 

rise  up,  to  condemn  me.     Let  me  come  and  plead  with 
you,  for  I  know  not  what  I  write." 

The  answer  returned  to  this  letter  was  as  follows : — 
"I  learned  long  ago,  the  bar  that  prevented  our 
union ;  it  is  in  existence  still,  Duncan.  Your  mother 
only  shall  decide  if  it  be  insurmountable.  I  have  never, 
even  for  a  moment,  doubted  your  faithfulness ;  and  it 
has  been  to  me  an  unspeakable  comfort  ,to  know  that 
none  had  supplanted  me  in  your  affections.  In  the 
temptations,  and  struggles,  and  hardships,  I  have  known, 
it  has  kept  me  above  and  beyond  the  world,  and  if  the 
last  night's  triumph  proves  to  be  but  the  opening  of  a 
new  life  for  me  on  earth,  the  recollection  of  what  you 
are,  and  that  you  care  for  me,  will  prove  a  rock  of  de 
fence,  and  a  stronghold  of  hope  always.  Severed  from, 
or  united  with  you,  I  am  yours  for  ever." 

Seven  days  after  there  was  a  marriage  in  the  little 
church  of  that  remote  village,  where  Duncan  Melville 
and  Rosalie  Sherwood  passed  their  childhood.  Side  by 
side  they  stood  now,  once  again,  where  the  baptismal 
service  had  long  since  been  read  for  them,  and  the  mo 
ther  of  the  bishop  gave  the  bride  away ! 


THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

IT  was  Sabbath  morning.  Soft  and  silvery,  like  stray 
notes  from  the  quivering  chords  of  an  archangel's  harp, 
floated  the  clear,  sweet  voice  of  the  church-bells  through 
the  hushed  heart  of  the  great  metropolis,  while  old  men 
and  little  children — youth  in  its  hope,  and  manhood  in 
its  pride — came  forth  at  their  summons,  setting  a  mighty 
human  tide  in  the  direction  of  the  sanctuaries,  beneath 
whose  sacred  droppings  they  should  hear  again  the 
tidings  which  come  to  us  over  the  waves  of  nearly  two 
thousand  years,  fresh  and  full  of  exceeding  melody,  as 
when  the  Day-Star  from  on  high  first  poured  its  blessed 
beams  over  the  mountain  heights  of  Judea,  and  the 
song,  pealing  over  the  hills  of  jasper,  rolled  down  to 
the  shepherds  who  kept  their  night-watches  on  her 
plains ;  "  Peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  men." 

A  child  came  forth  with  his  ragged  garments,  un 
washed  face  and  uncombed  hair,  from  one  of  those 
haunts  of  darkness  and  misery  which  fill  the  city  with 
crime  and  suffering.  He  was  a  little  child,  and  yet 
there  was  none  of  its  peace  on  his  brow,  or  its  light 
in  his  eye,  as  he  looked  up  with  a  strange,  wistful  ear 
nestness  at  the  strip  of  blue  sky  that  looked  down  with 
its  serene  heaven-smile  between  the  frowning  and  dilapi 
dated  pile  of  buildings  which  rose  on  either  side  of 
the  alley.  The  sunshine  flitted  like  the  soft-caressing 
fingers  of  a  spirit  over  his  forehead,  and  the  voice  of 


132  THE  LITTLE   CHILDREN. 

the  bells  fell  upon  his  spirit  with  a  strange,  subduing 
influence ;  and  the  child  kept  on  his  way  until  the  alley 
terminated  in  a  broad,  pleasant  street,  with  its  crowd  of 
church-goers,  and  still  the  boy  kept  on,  unmindful  of 
dainty  robe  and  silken  vesture  that  waved  and  rustled 
by  him. 

He  stood  at  last  within  the  broad  shadow  of  the  sanc 
tuary,  while  far  above  him  rose  the  tall  spire,  with  the 
sunbeams  coiling  like  a  heaven-halo  around  it,  pointing 
to  the  golden  battlements  of  the  far-off  city,  within 
whose  blessed  precincts  nothing  "which  defileth  shall 
ever  enter."  The  massive  church  doors  swung  slowly 
open  as  one  and  another  entered,  and  the  child  looked 
eagerly  up  the  long,  mysterious  mid-aisle,  but  the  silken 
garments  rustled  past — there  was  no  hand  outstretched 
to  lead  the  ragged  and  wretched  little  one  within  its 
walls,  and  no  one  paused  to  tell  him  of  the  Great  Fa 
ther,  within  whose  sight  the  rich  and  poor  are  alike. 
But  while  he  stood  there,  an  angel  with  golden  hair  and 
gleaming  wings  bent  over  him,  holding  precious  heart- 
seed,  gathered  from  the  white  plains  of  the  spirit-land, 
and  as  the  child  drew  nearer  the  church  steps,  the  angel 
followed. 

Suddenly  the  little  dappeu  sexton,  with  his  broad 
smile  and  bustling  gait,  came  out  of  the  church.  His 
eyes  rested  a  moment  upon  the  young  wistful  face  and 
on  the  ragged  garments,  and  then  he  beckoned  to  the 
child. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  in  here,  my  boy?"  asked  a  voice 
kinder  and  pleasanter  than  any  which  the  child  had 
ever  heard ;  and  as  he  timidly  bowed  his  head,  the  sexton 


THE   LITTLE   CHILDREN.  133 

took  the  little  soiled  hand  in  his  own,  and  they  passed 
in,  and  the  angel  followed  them. 

Seated  in  one  corner  of  the  church,  the  child's  eyes 
wandered  over  the  frescoed  walls,  with  the  sunshine  flit 
ting  like  the  fringe  of  a  spirit's  robe  across  it,  and  up 
the  dim  aisle  to  the  great  marble  pulpit,  with  a  kind  of 
bewildered  awe,  for  he  had  seen  nothing  of  the  like 
before,  unless  it  might  be  in  some  dim,  half-forgotten 
dream ;  but  when  the  heavy  doors  swung  together  and 
the  Sabbath  hush  gathered  over  the  church,  and  the 
hallelujahs  of  the  organ  filled  the  house  of  the  Lord 
and  thrilled  the  heart  of  the  child ;  he  bowed  his  head 
and  wept  sweet  tears — he  could  not  tell  whence  was 
their  coming.  Then  the  solemn  prayer  from  the  pul 
pit — "  0,  Thou  who  lovest  all  men,  who  art  the  Father 
of  the  old  and  the  young,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  and  in 
whose  sight  they  are  alike  precious,  grant  us  Thy  bless 
ing,"  came  to  the  ears  of  the  child,  and  a  new  cry  awoke 
in  his  soul.  Where  was  this  Father  ?  It  did  not  seem 
true  that  He  could  love  him,  a  poor  little,  hungry,  rag 
ged  beggar ;  that  such  a  one  could  be  his  child.  But, 
oh!  it  was  just  what  his  heart  longed  for,  and  if  all 
others  were  precious  to  this  Great  Father,  he  did  not 
believe  He  would  leave  him  out.  If  he  could  only  find 
Him — no  matter  how  long  the  road  was,  nor  how  cold 
and  hungry  he  might  be,  he  would  keep  straight  on  the 
way,  until  he  reached  Him,  and  then  he  would  go  right 
in  and  say,  "  Father,  I  am  cold  and  hungry,  and  very 
wretched.  There  is  no  one  to  love  me,  none  to  care  for 
me.  May  I  be  your  child,  Father?"  And  perhaps  He 
would  look  kindly  upon  him,  and  whisper  softly,  as  no 


134  THE  LITTLE   CHILDREN. 

human  being  had  ever  whispered  to  him,  "My  child!" 
and  stronger  and  wilder  from  his  heart  came  up  that 
cry,  "  Oh,  if  I  could  only  find  Him !" 

Again  the  tones  of  the  deep-toned  organ  and  the 
sweet-voiced  choir  floated  on  the  Sabbath  air,  and  crept, 
a  strange,  soft  tide,  into  the  silent  places  of  the  boy's 
heart,  softening  and  subduing  it ;  while  during  the  long 
sermon,  of  which  he  heard  little,  and  comprehended 
less,  that  spirit  cry  rolled  continually  up  from  the 
depths  of  his  soul — "  Where  is  the  Father  ?" 

The  benediction  had  been  pronounced,  and  the  house 
was  disgorged  of  most  of  its  vast  crowd  of  worshippers, 
and  yet  the  boy  lingered — he  could  not  bear  to  return 
to  his  dark  and  dismal  dwelling,  to  the  harsh  words 
and  harsher  usage  of  those  who  loved  him  not,  without 
having  that  question,  which  his  soul  was  so  eagerly 
asking,  answered.  But  that  little  timid  heart  lacked 
courage,  and  he  knew  the  words  would  die  in  his  throat 
if  he  attempted  to  speak  them,  and  (so  he  must  go  away 
without  knowing  the  way  to  the  Father — but  his  feet 
dragged  unwillingly  along,  and  his  eyes  searched  ear 
nestly  the  figures  that,  unwitting  of  his  want,  passed 
swiftly  before  him. 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  know,  little  boy?"  The 
voice  was  very  musical,  and  the  smile  on  the  lips  of  the 
child-questioner  very  winning.  The  chestnut-brown  curls 
floated  over  her  silken  robe,  and  the  soft  blue  eyes  that 
looked  into  the  boy's,  wore  that  unearthly  purity  of  ex 
pression  which  is  not  the  portion  of  the  children  of  this 
world. 

The  boy  looked  into  that  fair,  childish  face,  and  his 


THE   LITTLE   CHILDREN.  135 

heart  took  courage,  while  very  eagerly  from  his  lips 
came  the  words,  "Where  is  the  Great  Father?" 

"God  is  in  heaven!"  answered  the  little  girl  in 
solemn  tones,  while  a  sudden  gravity  gathered  over  her 
features. 

From  lips  that  burned  with  blasphemies,  amid  oaths 
from  the  vile,  and  revilings  from  the  scoffer,  -had  the  boy 
first  learned  that  name,  and  never  before  had  it  possessed 
aught  of  import  for  him.  But  now  he  knew  it  was  the 
name  of  the  Great  Father  that  loved  him,  and  again 
he  asked  very  earnestly,  "  Where  is  the  way  to  God  in 
heaven?  I  am  going  to  Him  now." 

The  child  shook  her  head  as  she  looked  on  the  boy 
with  a  sort  of  pitying  wonder  at  his  ignorance,  and 
again  she  answered,  "  You  cannot  go  to  Him,  but  He 
will  come  to  you  if  you  will  call  upon  Him,  and  He  will 
hear,  though  you  whisper  very  low,  for  God  is  every 
where." 

"  Come,  come,  Miss  Ellen,  you  must  not  stay  here  any 
longer,"  called  the  servant,  who  had  been  very  intent  at 
ranging  the  cushions  in  the  pew,  and  who  now  hurried 
her  little  charge  through  the  aisle,  apprehensive  that 
some  evil  might  accrue  from  her  contiguity  with  a 
"street-beggar." 

But  the  words  of  the  little  girl  had  brought  a  new  and 
precious  light  into  the  boy's  heart.  That  "  cardinal  ex 
plication  of  the  reason,"  the  wondrous  idea  of  the  Deity, 
had  found  a  voice  in  his  soul)  and  the  child  went  forth 
from  the  church,  while  the  golden-winged  angel  followed 
him  to  the  dark  alley,  and  the  darker  home ;  and  that  * 
night,  before  he  laid  himself  on  his  miserable  pallet  in 


135  THK   LITTLE   CHILDREN. 

the  corner,  he  bowed  his  head,  and  clasped  his  hands, 
and  whispered  so  that  none  might  hear  him,  "My  Fa 
ther,  will  you  take  care  of  me,  and  come  and  take  me 
to  yourself?  for  I  love  you."  And  the  angel  folded  his 
bright  wings  above  that  scanty  pallet,  and  bent  in  the 
silent  watches  of  the  night  over  the  boy,  and  filled  his 
heart  with  peace,  and  his  dreams  with  brightness. 

Six  months  had  rolled  their  mighty  burden  of  life- 
records  into  the  pulseless  ocean  of  the  past.  The  pale 
stars  of  mid-winter  were  looking  down  with  meek, 
seraph  glances  over  the  mighty  metropolis  along  whose 
thousand  thoroughfares  lay  the  white  carpet  of  the  snow- 
king  ;  and  Boreas,  loosed  from  his  ice  caverns  on  the 
frozen  floor  of  the  Arctic,  was  holding  mad  revels,  and 
howling  with  demoniac  glee  along  the  streets,  wrapped 
in  the  pall  shadows  of  midnight. 

Twelve  o'clock  pealed  from  the  mighty  tongue  of  the 
time-recorder,  and  then  the  white-robed  angel  of  death 
knocked  at  the  door  of  two  young  human  hearts,  in  the 
great  city. 

The  tide  of  golden  hair  flowed  over  the  white  pillows  of 
a  crimson-draperied  couch.  Shaded  lamps  poured  their 
dim,  silvery  glances  upon  bright  flowers  and  circling 
vines,  the  cunning  workmanship  of  fingers  in  far-off  lands, 
which  lay  among  the  soft  groundwork  of  the  rich  carpet, 
while  small  white  fingers  glided  caressingly  among  the 
golden  hair;  and  white  faces,  wild  with  sorrow,  bent 
over  the  rigid  features  of  the  dying  child,  and  tears, 
such  only  as  flow  from  the  heart's  deepest  and  bitterest 
fountains,  fell  upon  the  cold  forehead  and  paling  lips, 
as  the  lids  swept  back  for  a  moment  from  her  blue  eyes, 


THE   LITTLE   CHILDREN.  137 

and  the  light  from  her  spirit  broke  for  the  last  time  into 
them ;  the  lips  upon  which  the  death-seal  was  ready  to  be 
laid,  opened ;  and  clear  and  joyous  through  the  hushed 
room  rang  the  words,  "I  am  coming!  I  am  coming!" 
and  the  next  moment  the  cold,  beautiful  clay  was  all 
which  was  left  to  the  mourners. 

The  other,  at  whose  heart  the  death-angel  knocked, 
lay  in  one  corner  of  an  old  and  dilapidated  room,  on  a 
pallet  of  straw.  No  soft  hand  wandered  caressingly 
among  his  dark  locks,  or  cooled  with  its  cold  touch  the 
fever  of  his  forehead.  The  dim,  flickering  rays  of  the 
tallow  candle  wandered  over  the  features  now  grown 
stark  and  rigid  with  the  death-chill.  No  grief-printed 
face  bent  in  anguish  above  him ;  no  eye  watched  for  the 
latest  breath ;  no  ear  for  the  dying  word ;  but  through 
the  half-open  door,  came  to  the  ear  of  the  dying  boy 
the  coarse  laugh  of  the  inebriate — the  jest  of  the  vile, 
and  the  frightful  blasphemies  of  those  whose  way  is  the 
way  of  death. 

None  saw  the  last  life-light,  as  it  broke  into  the  dark, 
spiritual  eyes  of  the  boy.  None  saw  the  smile  that 
played  like  the  light  around  the  lips  of  a  seraph,  about 
his  blue  and  cold  lips,  as  they  spoke  exceeding  joyfully, 
"  Father !  Father,  I  have  called  and  you  have  heard  me; 
I  am  coming  to  you,  coming  now ;  for  the  angels  beckon 
me ;"  and  the  pale  clay  on  that  sunken  pallet  was  all 
that  remained  of  the  boy. 

Together  they  met,  those  two  children  who  had  stood 
together  in  the  earthly  courts  of  the  Most  High,  and 
whom  the  angel  had  simultaneously  called  from  the 
earth,  beneath  the  shining  battlements  of  "  the  city  of 


138 


THE  LITTLE   CHILDREN. 


God."  The  white  wings  of  the  warden-angels,  who 
stood  on  its  watch-towers,  were  slowly  folded  together, 
and  hack  rolled  the  massive  gates  from  the  walls  of 
jasper ;  and  with  the  great  "  Godlight"  streaming  out 
ward,  and  amid  the  sound  of  archangel's  harp  and 
seraph's  lyre,  the  ministering  angels  came  forth.  They 
did  not  ask  the  child-spirits  there,  if  their  earthly  homes 
had  heen  among  the  high  and  the  honourable ;  they  did 
not  ask  them  if  broad  lands  had  been  their  heritage,  and 
sparkling  coffers  their  portion ;  if  their  paths  had  lain 
by  pleasant  waters,  and  animals  followed  their  biddings ; 
but  alike  they  led  them — she,  the  daughter  of  wealth 
and  earthly  splendour,  whose  forehead  the  breezes  might 
not  visit  too  roughly,  and  whose  pathway  had  been  bor 
dered  with  flowers  and  gilded  with  sunshine ;  and  he,  the 
heir  of  poverty,  whose  portion  had  been  want,  and  his 
inalienable  heritage,  suffering;  whose  path  had  known 
no  pleasant  places;  whose  life  had  had  no  brightness 
within  that  glorious  city.  They  placed  bright  crowns, 
alike  woven  from  the  fragrant  branches  of  the  far- 
spreading  "  Tree  of  Life,"  around  their  spirit-brows ; 
they  decked  them  alike  in  white  robes,  whose  lustre 
many  ages  shall  not  dim;  alike  they  placed  in  their 
hands  the  harps  whose  music  shall  roll  for  ever  over  the 
the  hills  of  jasper ;  and  alike  they  pointed  them  to  the 
gleaming  battlements,  to  the  still  skies  over  whose  sur 
face  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  hath  never  floated ;  to  the 
"many  mansions"  which  throw  the  shadow  of  their 
shining  portals  on  the  rippling  waters  of  the  "  River  of 
Life,"  and  to  far  more  of  glory  "which  it  hath  never 
entered  into  the  heart  of  man* to  conceive  of,"  and  told 
them  they  should  "  go  no  more  out  for  ever." 


WHAT  IS  NOBLE? 

WHAT  is  noble  ?  to  inherit 

Wealth,  estate,  and  proud  degree  ? 
There  must  be  some  other  merit, 

Higher  yet  than  these  for  me. 
Something  greater  far  must  enter 

Into  life's  majestic  span ; 
Fitted  to  create  and  centre 

True  nobility  in  man ! 

What  is  noble  ?  ;tis  the  finer 

Portion  of  our  mind  and  heart : 
Linked  to  something  still  diviner 

Than  mere  language  can  impart ; 
Ever  prompting — ever  seeing 

Some  improvement  yet  to  plan ; 
To  uplift  our  fellow-being — 

And  like  man  to  feel  for  man ! 

What  is  noble  ?  is  the  sabre 

Nobler  than  the  humble  spade  ? 
There's  a  dignity  in  labour 

Truer  than  e'er  Pomp  arrayed ! 
He  who  seeks  the  mind's  improvement 

Aids  the  world— in  aiding  mind ! 
Every  great,  commanding  movement 

Serves  not  one— but  all  mankind. 

O'er  the  Forge's  heat  and  ashes — 

O'er  the  Engine's  iron  head — 
Where  the  rapid  Shuttle  flashes, 

And  the  Spindle  whirls  its  thread ; 
There  is  Labour  lowly  tending    • 

Each  requirement  of  the  hour ; 
There  is  genius  still  extending 

Science— and  its  world  of  power ! 


THE  ANEMONE  HEPATICA. 

Two  friends  were  walking  together  beside  a  pic 
turesque  mill-stream.  While  they  walked,  they  talked 
of  mortal  life,  its  meaning  and  its  end ;  and,  as  is  almost 
inevitable  with  such  themes,  the  current  of  their  thoughts 
gradually  lost  its  cheerful  flow. 

"This  is  a  miserable  world,"  said  one;  "the  black 
shroud  of  sorrow  overhangs  everything  here." 

"  Not  so,"  replied  the  other ;  "  Sorrow  is  not  a  shroud. 
It  is  only  the  covering  Hope  wraps  about  her  when  she 
sleeps." 

Just  then  they  entered  an  oak-grove.  It  was  early 
spring,  and  the  trees  were  bare,  but  last  year's  leaves 
lay  thick  as  snow-drifts  upon  the  ground. 

"  The  Liverwort  grows  here,  one  of  our  earliest  flowers, 
I  think,"  said  the  last  speaker.  "  There,  push  away  the 
leaves,  and  you  will  find  it.  How  beautiful,  with  its 
delicate  shades  of  pink,  and  purple,  and  green,  lying 
against  the  bare  roots  of  the  oak-trees !  But  look  deeper, 
or  you  will  not  find  the  flowers ;  they  are  under  the  dead 
leaves." 

"  Now  I  have  learned  a  lesson  that  I  shall  not  forget," 
said  her  friend.  "  This  seems  to  me  a  bad  world,  and 
there  is  no  denying  that  there  are  bad  things  in  it.  To 
a  sweeping  glance,  it  will  sometimes  seem  barren  and 
desolate ;  but  not  one  buried  germ  of  life  and  beauty  is 
lost  to  the  All-seeing  Eye.  I,  having  the  weakness  of 
human  vision,  must  believe  where  I  cannot  see.  Hence- 


THE   FAMILY   OF   MICHAEL   AROUT.  141 

forth,  when  I  am  tempted  to  complainings  and  despair 
on  account  of  the  evil  around  me,  I  will  say  to  myself, 
*  Look  deeper,  look  under  the  dead  leaves,  and  you  will 
find  flowers.'  " 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  AROUT. 

September  15th,  eight  o'clock. — This  morning,  while  I 
was  arranging  my  books,  Mother  Genevieve  came  in,  and 
brought  me  the  basket  of  fruit  I  buy  of  her  every  Sun 
day.  For  nearly  twenty  years  that  I  have  lived  in  this 
quarter,  I  have  dealt  in  her  little  fruit-shop.  Perhaps 
I  should  be  better  served  elsewhere,  but  Mother  Gene 
vieve  has  but  little  custom ;  to  leave  her  would  do  her 
harm,  and  cause  her  unnecessary  pain.  It  seems  to  me 
that  the  length  of  our  acquaintance  has  made  me  incur 
a  sort  of  tacit  obligation  to  her ;  my  patronage  has  be 
come  her  property. 

She  has  put  the  basket  upon  my  table,  and  as  I 
wanted  her  husband,  who  is  a  joiner,  to  add  some  shelves 
to  my  bookcase,  she  has  gone  down  stairs  again  imme 
diately  to  send  him  to  me. 

At  first  I  did  not  notice  either  her  looks  or  the  sound 
of  her  voice ;  but  now,  that  I  recall  them,  it  seems  to 
me  that  she  was  not  as  jovial  as  usual.  Can  Mother 
Genevieve  be  in  trouble  about  anything  ? 

Poor  woman !  All  her  best  years  were  subject  to 
such  bitter  trials,  that  she  might  think  she  had  received 
her  full  share  already.  Were  I  to  live  a  hundred  years, 


142  THE  FAMILY   OF   MICHAEL   ABOUT. 

I  should  never  forget  the  circumstances  which  first  made 
her  known  to  me,  and  which  obtained  her  my  respect. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  my  first  settling  in  the  faubourg. 
I  had  noticed  her  empty  fruit-shop,  which  nobody  came 
into,  and  being  attracted  by  its  forsaken  appearance,  I 
made  my  little  purchases  in  it.  I  have  always  instinct 
ively  preferred  the  poor  shops ;  there  is  less  choice  in 
them,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  my  purchase  is  a  sign  of 
sympathy  with  a  brother  in  poverty.  These  little  deal 
ings  are  almost  always  an  anchor  of  hope  to  those  whose 
very  existence  is  in  peril — the  only  means  by  which  some 
orphan  gains  a  livelihood.  There  the  aim  of  the  trades 
man  is  not  to  enrich  himself,  but  to  live !  The  purchase 
you  make  of  him  is  more  than  exchange — it  is  a  good 
action. 

Mother  Genevieve  at  that  time  was  still  young,  but 
had  already  lost  that  fresh  bloom  of  youth,  which  suffer 
ing  causes  to  wither  so  soon  among  the  poor.  Her  hus 
band,  a  clever  joiner,  gradually  left  off  working  to  be 
come,  according  to  the  picturesque  expression  of  the 
workshops,  a  worshipper  of  Saint  Monday.  The  wages 
of  the  week,  which  was  always  reduced  to  two  or  three 
working  days,  were  completely  dedicated  by  him  to  the 
worship  of  this  god  of  the  Barriers,*  and  Genevieve 
was  obliged  herself  to  provide  for  all  the  wants  of  the 
household. 

One  evening,  when  I  went  to  make  some  trifling  pur 
chases  of  her,'  I  heard  a  sound  of  quarrelling  in  the  back 
shop.  There  were  the  voices  of  several  women,  among 

*  The  cheap  wine-shops  are  outside  the  Barriers,  to  avoid  the 
octroi,  cr  municipal  excise. 


THE  FAMILY  OP  MICHAEL  AROUT.         143 

which  I  distinguished  that  of  Genevieve,  broken  by  sobs. 
On  looking  further  in,  I  perceived  the  fruit-woman,  with 
a  child  in  her  arms,  and  kissing  it,  while  a  country  nurse 
seemed  to  be  claiming  her  wages  from  her.  The  poor 
woman,  who  without  doubt  had  exhausted  every  explana 
tion  and  every  excuse,  was  crying  in  silence,  and  one  of 
her  neighbours  was  trying  in  vain  to  appease  the  country 
woman.  Excited  by  that  love  of  money  which  the  evils 
of  a  hard  peasant  life  but  too  well  excuse,  and  dis 
appointed  by  the  refusal  of  her  expected  wages,  the  nurse 
was  launching  forth  in  recriminations,  threats,  and  abuse. 
In  spite  of  myself,  I  listened  to  the  quarrel,  not  daring 
to  interfere,  and  not  thinking  of  going  away,  when 
Michael  Arout  appeared  at  the  shop-door. 

The  joiner  had  just  come  from  the  Barrier,  where  he 
had  passed  part  of  the  day  at  the  public-house.  His 
blouse,  without  a  belt,  and  untied  at  the  throat,  showed 
none  of  the  noble  stains  of  work :  in  his  hand  he  held 
his  cap,  which  he  had  just  picked  out  of  the  mud ;  his 
hair  was  in  disorder,  his  eye  fixed,  and  the  pallor  of 
drunkenness  in  his  face.  He  came  reeling  in,  looked 
wildly  around  him,  and  called  for  Genevieve. 

She  heard  his  voice,  gave  a  start,  and  rushed  into  the 
shop ;  but  at  the  sight  of  the  miserable  man,  who  was 
trying  in  vain  to  steady  himself,  she  pressed  the  child  in 
her  arms,  and  bent  over  it  with  tears. 

The  countrywoman  and  the  neighbour  had  followed 
her. 

"  Come !  come !  Do  you  intend  to  pay  me,  after  all?" 
cried  the  former,  in  a  rage. 

"  Ask  the  master  for  the  money,"  ironically  answered 


144  THE   FAMILY   OF   MICHAEL  AROUT. 

tne  woman  from  next  door,  pointing  to  the  joiner,  who 
had  just  fallen  against  the  counter. 

The  countrywoman  looked  at  him. 

"  Ah !  he  is  the  father,"  resumed  she ;  "  well,  what 
idle  beggars !  not  to  have  a  penny  to  pay  honest  people, 
and  get  tipsy  with  wine  in  that  way." 

The  drunkard  raised  his  head. 

"  What !  what !"  stammered  he;  "who  is  it  that  talks 
of  wine  ?  I've  had  nothing  hut  brandy.  But  I  am 
going  back  again  to  get  some  wine.  Wife,  give  me  your 
money ;  there  are  some  friends  waiting  for  me  at  the 
Ptre  la  Tuille." 

Genevieve  did  not  answer :  he  went  round  the  counter, 
opened  the  till,  and  began  to  rummage  in  it. 

"You  see  where  the  money  of  the  house  goes!" 
observed  the  neighbour  to  the  countrywoman ;  "  how 
can  the  poor  unhappy  woman  pay  you  when  he  takes 
all?" 

"Is  that  my  fault,  then?"  replied  the  nurse  angrily; 
"  they  owe  it  me,  and  somehow  or  other  they  must  pay 
me." 

And  letting  loose  her  tongue,  as  those  women  out  of 
the  country  do,  she  began  relating  at  length  all  the  care 
she  had  taken  of  the  child,  and  all  the  expense  it  had 
been  to  her.  In  proportion  as  she  recalled  all  she  had 
done,  her  words  seemed  to  convince  her  more  than  ever 
of  her  rights,  and  to  increase  her  anger.  The  poor 
mother,  who  no  doubt  feared  that  her  violence  would 
frighten  the  child,  returned  into  the  back  shop,  and  put 
it  into  its  cradle. 

Whether  it  was  that  the  countrywoman  saw  in  this 


THE    FAMILY   OF    MICHAEL   AROTJT.  145 

act  a  determination  to  escape  her  claims,  or  that  she 
was  blinded  by  passion,  I  cannot  say ;  but  she  rushed 
into  the  next  room,  where  I  heard  the  sounds  of  quar 
relling,  with  which  the  cries  of  the  child  were  soon  min 
gled.  The  joiner,  who  was  still  rummaging  in  the  till, 
was  startled,  and  raised  his  head. 

At  the  same  moment  Genevieve  appeared  at  the  door, 
holding  in  her  arms  the  baby  that  the  countrywoman  was 
trying  to  tear  from  her.  She  ran  towards  the  counter, 
and,  throwing  herself  behind  her  husband,  cried, 

"  Michael,  defend  your  son !" 

The  drunken  man  quickly  stood  up  erect,  like  one  who 
awakes  with  a  start. 

"  My  son !"  stammered  he ;  "  what  son  ?" 

His  looks  fell  upon  the  child ;  a  vague  ray  of  intelli 
gence  passed  over  his  features. 

"  Robert,"  resumed  he ;  "  is  it  Robert  ?" 

He  tried  to  steady  himself  on  his  feet,  that  he  might 
take  the  baby,  but  he  tottered.  The  nurse  approached 
him  in  a  rage. 

"My  money,  or  I  shall  take  the  child  away  !"  cried 
she ;  "  it  is  I  who  have  fed  and  brought  it  up ;  if  you 
don't  pay  for  what  has  made  it  live,  it  ought  to  be  the 
same  to  you  as  if  it  were  dead.  I  shall  not  go  till  I 
have  my  due  or  the  baby." 

"And  what  would  you  do  with  him?"  murmured 
Genevieve,  pressing  Robert  against  her  bosom. 

"Take  it  to  the  Foundling!"  replied  the  country 
woman,  harshly ;  "  the  hospital  is  a  better  mother  than 
you  are,  for  it  pays  for  the  food  of  its  little  ones." 

At  the  word  "Foundling,"  Genevieve  had  exclaimed 
10 


146  THE   FAMILY  OF   MICHAEL  AROUT. 

aloud  in  horror.  With  her  arms  wound  round  Ler  soi»x 
whose  head  she  hid  in  her  bosom,  and  her  two  hands 
spread  over  him,  she  had  retreated  to  the  wall,  and 
remained  with  her  back  against  it,  like  a  lioness  defend 
ing  her  young  ones. 

The  neighbour  and  I  contemplated  this  scene,  without 
knowing  how  we  could  interfere.  As  for  Michael,  he 
looked  at  us  by  turns,  making  a  visible  effort  to  compre 
hend  it  all.  When  his  eye  rested  upon  Genevieve  and 
the  child,  it  lit  up  with  a  gleam  of  pleasure ;  but  when 
he  turned  towards  us,  he  again  became  stupid  and  hesi 
tating. 

At  last,  apparently  making  a  prodigious  effort,  he 
cried  out— "Wait!" 

And  going  to  a  tub  full  of  water,  he  plunged  his  face 
into  it  several  times. 

Every  eye  was  turned  upon  him ;  the  countrywoman 
herself  seemed  astonished.  At  length  he  raised  his 
dripping  head.  This  ablution  had  partly  dispelled  his 
drunkenness ;  he  looked  at  us  for  a  moment,  then  he 
turned  to  Genevieve,  and  his  face  brightened  up. 

"  Robert !"  cried  he,  going  up  to  the  child,  and  taking 
him  in  his  arms.  "Ah!  give  him  me,  wife;  I  must 
look  at  him." 

The  mother  seemed  to  give  up  his  son  to  him  with 
reluctance,  and  stayed  before  him  with  her  arms  ex 
tended,  as  if  she  feared  the  child  would  have  a  fall. 
The  nurse  began  again  in  her  turn  to  speak,  and  renewed 
her  claims,  this  time  threatening  to  appeal  to  law. 

At  first  Michael  listened  to  her  attentively,  and  when 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  AROUT.         147 

he  comprehended  her  meaning,  he  gave  the  child  back 
to  its  mother. 

"  How  much  do  we  owe  you  ?"  asked  he. 

The  countrywoman  began  to  reckon  up  the  different 
expenses,  which  amounted  to  nearly  thirty  francs.  The 
joiner  felt  to  the  bottom  of  his  pockets,  but  could  find 
nothing.  His  forehead  became  contracted  by  frowns ; 
low  curses  began  to  escape  him ;  all  of  a  sudden  he 
rummaged  in  his  breast,  drew  forth  a  large  watch,  and 
holding  it  up  above  his  head — 

"  Here  it  is — here's  your  money  !"  cried  he,  with  a 
joyful  laugh ;  "  a  watch,  number  one !  I  always  said  it 
would  keep  for  a  drink  on  a  dry  day ;  but  it  is  not  I 
who  will  drink  it,  but  the  young  one.  Ah  !  ah !  ah  !  go 
and  sell  it  for  me,  neighbour ;  and  if  that  is  not  enough, 
I  have  my  ear-rings.  Eh !  Genevieve,  take  them  off 
for  me,  the  ear-rings  will  square  all.  They  shall  not  say 
you  have  been  disgraced  on  account  of  the  child.  No, 
not  even  if  I  must  pledge  a  bit  of  my  flesh !  My  watch, 
my  ear-rings,  and  my  ring,  get  rid  of  all  of  them  for 
me  at  the  goldsmith's ;  pay  the  woman,  and  let  the  little 
fool  go  to  sleep.  Give  him  me,  Genevieve,  I  will  put 
him  to  bed." 

And,  taking  the  baby  from  the  arms  of  his  mother, 
he  carried  him  with  a  firm  step  to  his  cradle. 

It  was  easy  to  perceive  the  change  which  took  place 
in  Michael  from  this  day.  He  cut  all  his  old  drinking 
acquaintances.  He  went  early  every  morning  to  his 
work,  and  returned  regularly  in  the  evening  to  finish  the 
day  with  Genevieve  and  Robert.  Very  soon  he  would 


148         THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  AROUT. 

not  leave  them  at  all,  and  he  hired  a  place  near  the  fruit- 
shop,  and  worked  in  it  on  his  own  account. 

They  would  soon  have  been  able  to  live  in  comfort, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  expenses  which  the  child  required. 
Everything  was  given  up  to  his  education.  He  had  gone 
through  the  regular  school  training,  had  studied  mathe 
matics,  drawing,  and  the  carpenter's  trade,  and  had  only 
begun  to  work  a  few  months  ago.  Till  now,  they  had 
been  exhausting  every  resource  which  their  laborious 
industry  could  provide  to  push  him  forward  in  his  busi 
ness  ;  but,  happily,  all  these  exertions  had  not  proved 
useless ;  the  seed  had  brought  forth  its  fruits,  and  the 
days  of  harvest  were  close  by. 

While  I  was  thus  recalling  these  remembrances  to  my 
mind,  Michael  had  come  in,  and  was  occupied  in  fixing 
shelves  where  they  were  wanted. 

During  the  time  I  was  writing  the  notes  of  my  journal, 
I  was  also  scrutinizing  the  joiner.' 

The  excesses  of  his  youth  and  the  labour  of  his  man 
hood  have  deeply  marked  his  face ;  his  hair  is  thin  and 
gray,  his  shoulders  stooping,  his  legs  shrunken  and 
slightly  bent.  There  seems  a  sort  of  weight  in  his  whole 
being.  His  very  features  have  an  expression  of  sorrow 
and  despondency.  He  answered  my  questions  by  mono 
syllables,  and  like  a  man  who  wishes  to  avoid  conversa 
tion.  From  whence  is  this  dejection,  when  one  would 
think  he  had  all  he  could  wish  for  ?  I  should  like  to 
know! 

Ten  o'clock. — Michael  is  just  gone  down  stairs  to  look 
for  a  tool  he  has  forgotten.  I  have  at  last  succeeded  in 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  AROUT.         149 

drawing  from  him  the  secret  of  his  and  Genevieve's  sor 
row.  Their  son  Robert  is  the  cause  of  it. 

Not  that  he  has  turned  out  ill  after  all  their  care — 
not  that  he  is  idle  or  dissipated  ;•  but  both  were  in  hopes 
he  would  never  leave  them  any  more.  The  presence  of 
tb?  young  man  was  to  have  renewed  and  made  glad  their 
b'  res  once  more  ;  his  mother  counted  the  days,  his  father 
prepared  everything  to  receive  their  dear  associate  in 
their  toils,  and  at  the  moment  when  they  were  thus  about 
to  be  repaid  for  all  their  sacrifices,  Robert  had  suddenly 
informed  them  that  he  had  just  engaged  himself  to  a 
contractor  at  Versailles. 

Every  remonstrance  and  every  prayer  were  useless  ; 
he  brought  forward  the  necessity  of  initiating  himself 
into  all  the  details  of  an  important  contract,  the  facili 
ties  he  should  have,  in  his  new  position,  of  improving 
himself  in  his  trade,  and  the  hopes  he  had  of  turning 
his  knowledge  to  advantage.  At  last,  when  his  mother, 
having  come  to  the  end  of  her  arguments,  began  to  cry, 
he  hastily  kissed  her,  and  went  away,  that  he  might  avoid 
any  further  remonstrances. 

He  had  been  absent  a  year,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
give  them  hopes  of  his  return.  His  parents  hardly  saw 
him  once  a  month,  and  then  he  only  stayed  a  few  mo 
ments  with  them. 

"  I  have  been  punished  where  I  had  hoped  to  be  re 
warded,"  Michael  said  to  me  just  now ;  "  I  had  wished 
for  a  saving  and  industrious  son,  and  God  has  given  me 
an  ambitious  and  avaricious  one.  I  had  always  said  to 
myself,  that,  when  once  he  was  grown  up,  we  should 
have  him  always  with  us,  to  recall  our  youth  and  to 


150         THE  FAMILY  OP  MICHAEL  AROUT. 

enliven  our  hearts ;  his  mother  was  always  thinking  of 
getting  him  married,  and  having  children  again  to  care 
for.  You  know  women  always  will  busy  themselves 
about  others.  As  for  me,  I  thought  of  him  working  near 
my  bench,  and  singing  his  new  songs — for  he  has  learnt 
music,  and  is  one  of  the  best  singers  at  the  Orphe'on. 
A  dream,  sir,  truly !  Directly  the  bird  was  fledged,  he 
took  to  flight,  and  remembers  neither  father  nor  mother. 
Yesterday,  for  instance,  was  the  day  we  expected  him  ; 
he  should  have  come  to  supper  with  us.  No  Robert  to 
day,  either !  He  has  had  some  plan  to  finish,  or  some 
bargain  to  arrange,  and  his  old  parents  are  put  down  last 
in  the  accounts,  after  the  customers  and  the  joiner's 
work.  Ah  !  if  I  could  have  guessed  how  it  would  have 
turned  out !  Fool !  to  have  sacrificed  my  likings  and 
my  money,  for  nearly  twenty  years,  to  the  education  of  a 
thankless  son  !  Was  it  for  this  I  took  the  trouble  to  cure 
myself  of  drinking,  to  break  with  my  friends,  to  become 
an  example  to  the  neighbourhood  ?  The  jovial  good  fel 
low  has  made  a  goose  of  himself.  Oh!  if  I  had  to 
begin  again  !  No,  no  !  you  see  women  and  children  are 
our  bane.  They  soften  our  hearts ;  they  lead  us  a  life 
of  hope  and  affection ;  we  pass  a  quarter  of  our  lives  in 
fostering  the  growth  of  a  grain  of  corn  which  is  to  be 
everything  to  us  in  our  old  age,  and  when  the  harvest- 
time  comes — good-night,  the  ear  is  empty  !" 

Whilt  he  was  speaking,  Michael's  voice  became  hoarse, 
his  eye  fierce,  and  his  lips  quivered.  I  wished  to  answer 
him,  but  I  could  only  think  of  commonplace  consola 
tions,  and  I  remained  silent.  The  joiner  pretended  he 
wanted  a  tool,  and  left  me. 


THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  AROUT.        151 

Poor  father !  Ah !  I  know  those  moments  of  tempta 
tion  when  virtue  has  failed  to  reward  us,  and  we  regret 
having  obeyed  her !  Who  has  not  felt  this  weakness  in 
hours  of  trial,  and  who  has  not  uttered,  at  least  once, 
the  mournful  exclamation  of  "Brutus?" 

But  if  virtue  is  only  a  word,  what  is  there  then  in 
life  which  is  true  and  real  ?  No,  I  will  not  believe  that 
goodness  is  in  vain  !  It  does  not  always  give  the  happi 
ness  we  had  hoped  for,  but  it  brings  some  other.  In 
the  world  everything  is  ruled  by  order,  and  has  its  pro 
per  and  necessary  consequences,  and  virtue  cannot  be 
the  sole  exception  to  the  general  law.  If  it  had  been 
prejudicial  to  those  who  practise  it,  experience  would 
have  avenged  them ;  but  experience  has,  on  the  contrary, 
mader  it  more  universal  and  more  holy.  We  only  accuse 
it  of  being  a  faithless  debtor,  because  we  demand  an 
immediate  payment,  and  one  apparent  to  our  senses. 
We  always  consider  life  as  a  fairy  tale,  in  which  every 
good  action  must  be  rewarded  by  a  visible  wonder.  We 
do  not  accept  as  payment  a  peaceful  conscience,  self- 
content,  or  a  good  name  among  men,  treasures  that  are 
more  precious  than  any  other,  but  the  value  of  which 
we  do  not  feel  till  after  we  have  lost  them  ! 

Michael  is  come  back,  and  returned  to  his  work.  His 
son  had  not  yet  arrived. 

By  telling  me  of  his  hopes  and  his  grievous  dis 
appointments,  he  became  excited ;  he  unceasingly  went 
over  again  the  same  subject,  always  adding  something 
to  his  griefs.  He  has  just  wound  up  his  confidential 
discourse  by  speaking  to  me  of  a  joiner's  business,  which 
he  had  hoped  to  buy,  and  work  to  good  account  with 


152         THE  FAMILY  OP  MICHAEL  AR.OUT. 

Robert's  help.  The  present  owner  had  made  a  fortune 
by  it,  and  after  thirty  years  of  business,  he  was  think 
ing  of  retiring  to  one  of  the  ornamental  cottages  in  the 
outskirts  of  the  city,  a  usual  retreat  for  the  frugal  and 
successful  working  man.  Michael  had  not  indeed  the 
two  thousand  francs  which  must  be  paid  down ;  but 
perhaps  he  could  have  persuaded  Master  Benoit  to  wait. 
Robert's  presence  would  have  been  a  security  for  him ; 
for  the  young  man  could  not  fail  to  insure  the  prosperity 
of  a  workshop;  besides  science  and  skill,  he  had  the 
power  of  invention  and  bringing  to  perfection.  His 
father  had  discovered  among  his  drawings  a  new  plan 
for  a  staircase,  which  had  occupied  his  thoughts  for  a 
long  time ;  and  he  even  suspected  him  of  having  engaged 
himself  to  the  Versailles  contractor  for  the  very  purpose 
of  executing  it.  The  youth  was  tormented  by  this  spirit 
of  invention,  which  took  possession  of  all  his  thoughts, 
and,  while  devoting  his  mind  to  study,  he  had  no  time 
to  listen  to  his  feelings. 

Michael  told  me  all  this  with  a  mixed  feeling  of  pride 
and  vexation.  I  saw  he  was  proud  of  the  son  he  was 
abusing,  and  that  his  very  pride  made  him  more  sensible 
of  that  son's  neglect. 

Six  o'clock,  P.  M. — I  have  just  finished  a  happy  day. 
How  many  events  have  happened  within  a  few  hours, 
and  what  a  change  for  Genevieve  and  Michael ! 

He  had  just  finished  fixing  the  shelves,  and  telling 
me  of  his  son,  whilst  I  laid  the  cloth  for  my  breakfast. 

Suddenly  we  heard  hurried  steps  in  the  passage,  the 
door  opened,  and  Genevieve  entered  with  Robert. 

The  joiner  gave  a  start  of  joyful  surprise,  but  he  re- 


THE  FAMILY  OP  MICHAEL  AROUT.         153 

pressed  it  immediately,  as  if  he  wished  to  keep  up  the 
appearance  of  displeasure. 

The  young  man  did  not  appear  to  notice  it,  but  threw 
himself  into  his  arms  in  an  open-hearted  manner,  which 
surprised  me.  Genevieve,  whose  face  shone  with  happi 
ness,  seemed  to  wish  to  speak,  and  to  restrain  herself 
with  difficulty. 

I  told  Robert  I  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  he  answered 
me  with  ease  and  civility. 

"I  expected  you  yesterday,"  said  Michael  Arout, 
rather  dryly. 

"Forgive  me,  father,"  replied  the  young  workman, 
"  but  I  had  business  at  St.  Germains.  I  was  not  able 
to  come  back  till  it  was  very  late,  and  then  the  master 
kept  me." 

The  joiner  looked  at  his  son  sideways,  and  then  took 
up  his  hammer  again. 

"It  is  right,"  muttered  he,  in  a  grumbling  tone; 
"  when  we  are  with  other  people  we  must  do  as  they 
wish ;  but  there  are  some  who  would  like  better  to  eat 
brown  bread  with  their  own  knife,  than  partridges  with 
the  silver  fork  of  a  master." 

"And  I  am  one  of  those,  father,"  replied  Robert, 
merrily ;  "  but,  as  the  proverb  says,  you  must  shell  the 
peas  before  you  can  eat  them.  It  was  necessary  that  I 
should  first  work  in  a  great  workshop" — 

"To  go  on  with  your  plan  of  the  staircase,"  inter 
rupted  Michael,  ironically. 

"You  must  now  say  M.  Raymond's  plan,  father," 
replied  Robert,  smiling. 

"Why?" 


154  THE  FAMILY   OF   MICHAEL  AROTJT. 

"  Because  I  have  sold  it  to  him." 

The  joiner,  who  was  planing  a  board,  turned  round 
quickly. 

"  Sold  it !"  cried  he,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  For  the  reason  that  I  was  not  rich  enough  to  give 
it  him." 

Michael  threw  down  the  board  and  tool. 

"  There  he  is  again  !"  resumed  he,  angrily ;  "his  good 
genius  puts  an  idea  into  his  head  which  would  have 
made  him  known,  and  he  goes  and  sells  it  to  a  rich  man, 
who  will  take  the  honour  of  it  himself." 

"Well,  what  harm  is  there  done?"  asked  Genevieve. 

".What  harm!"  cried  the  joiner,  in  a  passion;  "you 
understand  nothing  about  it — you  are  a  woman ;  but  he 
— he  knows  well  that  a  true  workman  never  gives  up  his 
own  inventions  for  money,  no  more  than  a  soldier  would 
give  up  his  cross.  That  is  his  glory ;  he  is  bound  to 
keep  it  for  the  honour  it  does  him  !  Ah !  thunder !  if 
I  had  ever  made  a  discovery,  rather  than  put  it  up  at 
auction  I  would  have  sold  one  of  my  eyes  !  Don't  you 
see,  that  a  new  invention  is  like  a  child  to  a  workman ! 
he  takes  care  of  it,  he  brings  it  up,  he  makes  a  way  for 
it  in  the  world,  and  it  is  only  poor  creatures  who  sell  it." 

Robert  coloured  a  little. 

"You  will  think  differently,  father,"  said  he,  "when 
you  know  why  I  sold  my  plan." 

"Yes,  and  you  will  thank  him  for  it,"  added  Gene 
vieve,  who  could  no  longer  keep  silence. 

"  Never!"  replied  Michael. 

"  But,  wretched  man  !"  cried  she,  "  he  only  sold  it  for 
our  sftkes !' 


THE  FAMILY  OP  MICHAEL  AROTJT.  155 

The  joiner  looked  at  his  wife  and  son  with  astonish 
ment.  It  was  necessary  to  come  to  an  explanation. 
The  latter  related  how  he  had  entered  into  a  negotiation 
with  Master  Benoit,  who  had  positively  refused  to  sell 
his  business  unless  one-half  of  the  two  thousand  francs 
was  first  paid  down.  It  was  in  the  hopes  of  obtaining 
this  sum  that  he  had  gone  to  work  with  the  contractor 
at  Versailles ;  he  had  an  opportunity  of  trying  his  in 
vention,  and  of  finding  a  purchaser.  Thanks  to  the 
money  he  received  for  it,  he  had  just  concluded  the 
bargain  with  Benoit,  and  had  brought  his  father  the  key 
of  the  new  work-yard. 

This  explanation  was  given  by  the  young  workman 
with  so  much  modesty  and  simplicity,  that  I  was  quite 
affected  by  it.  Genevieve  cried ;  Michael  pressed  his 
son  to  his  heart,  and  in  a  long  embrace  he  seemed  to 
ask  his  pardon  for  having  unjustly  accused  him. 

All  was  now  explained  with  honour  to  Robert.  The 
conduct  which  his  parents  had  ascribed  to  indifference, 
really  sprang  from  affection ;  he  had  neither  obeyed  the 
voice  of  ambition  nor  of  avarice,  nor  even  the  nobler 
inspiration  of  inventive  genius ;  his  whole  motive  and 
single  aim  had  been  the  happiness  of  Genevieve  and 
Michael.  The  day  for  proving  his  gratitude  had  come, 
and  he  had  returned  them  sacrifice  for  sacrifice  I 

After  the  explanations  and  exclamations  of  joy,  were 
over,  all  three  were  about  to  leave  me ;  but  the  cloth 
being  laid,  I  added  three  more  places,  and  kept  them  to 
breakfast. 

The  meal  was  prolonged ;  the  fare  was  only  tolerable ; 
but  the  overflowings  of  affection  made  it  delicious. 


156  THE  FAMILY   OP   MICHAEL  AROUT. 

Never  had  I  better  understood  the  unspeakable  charm 
of  family  love.  What  calm  enjoyment  in  that  happi 
ness  which  is  always  shared  with  others ;  in  that  com 
munity  of  interests  which  unites  such  various  feelings  ; 
in  that  association  of  existences  which  forms  one  single 
being  of  so  many !  What  is  man  without  those  home 
affections,  which,  like  so  many  roots,  fix  him  firmly  in 
the  earth,  and  permit  him  to  imbibe  all  the  juices  of 
life  ?  Energy,  happiness,  does  it  not  all  come  from 
them  ?  Without  family  life,  where  would  man  learn  to 
love,  to  associate,  to  deny  himself?  A  community  in 
little,  is  not  it  which  teaches  us  how  to  live  in  the  great 
one  ?  Such  is  the  holiness  of  home,  that  to  express  our 
relation  with  God,  we  have  been  obliged  to  borrow  the 
words  invented  for  our  family  life.  Men  have  named 
themselves  the  sons  of  a  heavenly  Father. 

Ah  !  let  us  carefully  preserve  these  chains  of  domestic 
union ;  do  not  let  us  unbind  the  human  sheaf,  and  scatter 
its  ears  to  all  the  caprices  of  chance,  and  of  the  winds ; 
but  let  us  rather  enlarge  this  holy  law ;  let  us  carry  the 
principles  and  the  habits  of  home  beyond  its  bounds ; 
and,  if  it  may  be,  let  us  realize  the  prayer  of  the 
Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  when  he  exclaimed  to  the  new 
born  children  of  Christ: — "Be  ye  like-minded,  having 
the  same  love,  being  of  one  accord,  of  one  mind." 


BABY  IS  DEAD. 

"BABY  is  dead!"  How  many  hearts  have  throbbed 
with  anguish,  and  eyes  overflowed  with  tears  at  the 
utterance  of  these  thrilling  words !  A  tender  bud  is 
intrusted  to  a  rejoicing  family.  Very  precious  does  it 
become  to  them.  With  what  ecstatic  joy  do  they  note 
the  first  dawn  of  intelligence  as  it  beams  from  the 
starry  eyes  !  How  merry  their  own  hearts  now,  as 
they  listen  to  the  shouts  of  childish  glee  as  they 
burst  from  the  coral  lips !  Ay,  very,  very  dear  is  this 
little  one,  and  their  cup  of  bliss  seems  full  without 
alloy;  when  suddenly  the  relentless  destroyer  enters 
their  happy  home,  and  sets  his  seal  on  that  snowy  brow, 
so  like  a  lily's  leaf,  in  its  pure  beauty.  Disease  fastens 
itself  upon  the  loved  one,  and,  like  a  tender  bud  nipped 
by  the  untimely  frost,  it  withers,  droops,  and  dies. 
Then  come  the  fearful  words,  "  Baby  is  dead  !"  With 
what  a  crushing  weight  do  they  fall  on  the  ears  of  that 
mourning  family !  How  reluctantly  do  their  bruised 
hearts  acknowledge  the  sad  truth!  But  stern  reality 
avers  it  so,  and  the  spectre  Grief  claims  them  for  its 
own,  as  they  gaze  upon  the  pale  face  of  the  little 
sleeper. 

Ah !  the  light  of  those  bright  eyes  is  for  ever 
quenched,  and  the  lids  are  closed  tranquilly  over  them ; 
the  rose  tint  has  fled  from  the  round  cheeks  ;  the  ruby 
lips  are  colourless,  and  the  youthful  heart  has  ceased 
its  throbbings. 


158  BABY   IS   DEAD. 

Yes,  "  Baby  is  dead,"  and  silently  they  prepare  it  for 
the  cheerless  tomb.  The  golden  tresses  they  so  oft  have 
wound  lovingly  over  their  fingers,  are  gently  smoothed 
for  the  last  time,  while  one  fairy  curl  is  severed  and 
placed  next  the  mother's  heart ;  oft  will  she  gaze  upon 
it,  as  the  months  of  her  sorrow  come  and  go,  and  weep 
over  the  memory  of  her  departed  treasure. 

Sadly  the  little  form  is  robed  in  the  tiny  shroud,  and 
the  dimpled  hands  crossed  sweetly  over  the  pulseless 
bosom.  Gently  he  is  placed  in  the  coffin — it  is  a  harder 
bed  than  he  was  wont  to  rest  on,  but  he  will  feel  it  not. 
With  unutterable  anguish  they  follow  him  to  the  dark, 
cold  grave ;  strange  hands  lower  him  into  its  gloomy 
depths,  and  the  clods  fall  heavily  upon  the  coffin.  Each 
one  seems  to  sink  with  laden  weight  into  their  hearts. 
It  is  filled  up  now,  and  the  green  turf  covers  the  late 
smiling  cherub,  and  the  mourners  turn  sadly  away. 
Oh !  how  dark  the  world  seems  now,  which  was  so  full 
of  sunshine  a  little  while  ago  !  How  desolate  their  once 
joyous  house  ! 

"  Baby  is  dead — our  idol  is  gone,"  is  the  language  of 
their  hearts.  Yes,  stricken  ones,  your  sunbeam  is  gone ; 
but  where  ?  You  have  buried  the  beauteous  casket 
beneath  the  green  sods  of  the  valley ;  but  the  precious 
jewel  it  contained  is  beaming  brightly  in  the  coronal 
of  God. 

Your  treasure  is  taken  from  your  love-encircling  arms, 
but  it  is  sweetly  pillowed  on  the  bosom  of  that  kind 
Saviour  who  said,  "  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto 
me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven." 


BABY   IS   DEAD.  159 

The  bud  is  nipped  from  its  parent  stem  in  the  spring 
time  of  its  existence  ;  but  it  hath  been  transplanted  to 
a  milder  clime,  where  the  rough  blasts  and  chilling 
storms  of  mortality  cannot  harm,  and  where,  watered 
by  the  soft  dew  of  Divine  love,  its  tiny  leaves  will 
expand  and  bloom  with  unfading  lustre ! 

Had  this  bud  of  life,  over  whom  your  souls  yearned 
with  such  unutterable  fondness,  been  spared  to  you,  you 
know  not  how  your  bright  anticipations  might  have  been 
darkened.  When  it  came  to  thread  life's  strange,  wild 
paths,  mildew  and  blight  might  have  settled  on  the  pure 
spirit,  and  guilty,  desolating  passions  scathed  the  guile 
less  heart. 

Then  weep  not,  mourning  ones,  but  rather  rejoice  that 
He,  who  doeth  all  things  well,  hath  summoned  it,  in  its 
pristine  purity,  to  a  haven  of  innocence,  where  contami 
nation  nor  decay  cannot  defile  or  enter.  And  when  you 
miss  the  childish  prattle  or  silvery  laugh  which  fell  so 
sweetly  on  your  ears,  think  of  the  baby  that  is  dead  to 
you,  as  a  rejoicing  angel  among  angelic  hosts  that  throng 
the  "  land  of  the  blest."  Baby  is  dead  to  earth,  but  is 
living  in  Paradise ! 

"  Then  mourn  not,  though  the  loved  one  go 
Early  from  this  world  of  woe ; 
Upon  yon  bright  and  blissful  shore 
You  soon  shall  meet  to  part  no  more, 
'Mid  amaranthine  flowers  to  roam, 
Where  sin  and  death  can  never  come/ 


THE  TREASURED  RINGLET. 

I  AM  thinking  how,  one  April  eve. 

Upon  the  old  arm-chair 
I  sat,  and  how  I  fondly  played 

With  this  "brown  lock  of  hair ; 
Your  head  was  pillowed  on  my  breast, 

Your  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine, 
I  knew  your  heart  was  all  my  own, 

I  know  my  own  was  thine. 

The  balmy  breath  of  violets 

Came  floating  in  the  room, 
And  mingling  with  the  rose's  sigh, 

Spread  round  a  rich  perfume ; 
Yet  sweeter  was  the  warm  breath  which 

I  felt  upon  my  cheek, 
Than  fragrance  from  the  blushing  rose,' 

Or  from  the  violet  meek. 

Upon  the  oak  the  mocking-bird 

Was  singing  loud  and  clear, 
But  notes  more  musical  to  me 

Were  falling  on  my  ear ; 
For  from  your  noble  heart  you  poured 

Love's  low,  yet  thrilling  tone, 
And  every  word  your  pure  soul  breathed 

Was  answered  by  my  own. 

How  like  a  glorious  rainbow,  then, 
The  future  all  appeared  ? 

No  care  or  sorrow  then  we  knew, 
No  disappointment  feared. 

The  world's  rude  waves  had  not  begun 
Across  our  path  to  sweep, 

We  never— save  from  happiness- 
Had  cause  to  sigh  or  weep. 


HUMAN   LONGINGS   FOR  PEACE   AND   REST.  161 

But  many  weary  years  have  passed 

Since  that  bright  April  eve, 
And  you  have  learned  since  then  to  weep, 

And  I  have  learned  to  grieve ; 
And  on  thy  brow,  unfurrowed  then, 

Time,  and  hia  sister,  Care, 
Have  set  their  wrinkled  seal,  and  strewed 

Their  silver  in  thy  hair. 

Nor  Time,  nor  Care,  nor  world's  rude  waves, 

Have  had  the  power  to  chill 
The  holy  love  which  then  we  vowed, 

That  is  unclouded  still ; 
And  until  Death — the  reaper-— comes, 

It  ne'er  shall  flow  away — 
Our  tide  of  love  which  first  began 

Upon  that  April  day. 


HUMAN  LONGINGS  FOR  PEACE  AND  REST. 

THERE  are  few  whose  idea  of  happiness  does  not 
include  peace  as  essential.  Most  men  have  been  so 
tempest-tossed,  and  not  comforted,  that  they  long  for  a 
closing  of  all  excitements  at  last  in  peace.  Hence  the 
images  of  the  haven  receiving  the  shattered  bark,  of  the 
rural  vale  remote  from  the  noise  of  towns,  have  always 
been  dear  to  human  fancy.  Hence,  too,  the  decline  of 
life  away  from  severe  toil,  rapid  motion,  and  passionate 
action,  has  often  a  charm  even  beyond  the  kindling 
enterprise  of  youth.  The  cold  grave  itself  repels  not 
altogether,  but  somewhat  allures  the  imagination. 

"  How  still  and  peaceful  is  the  grave !" 


162  HUMAN    LONGINGS   FdR   PEACE   AND   REST. 

Especially  has  heaven  risen  to  the  religious  mind  in 
this  complexion  of  tranquillity.  It  is  generally  con 
ceived  as  free  from  all  disturbance,  broken  by  not  a 
sound  save  of  harmonious  anthems,  which,  like  mur 
muring  waters,  give  deeper  peace  than  could  be  found 
in  silence. 

But  man  so  longs  for  rest  and  peace,  that  he  not  only 
soothes  himself  with  these  images  from  afar,  but  hopes 
to  foretaste  their  substance.  And  what  are  his  views 
to  this  end  ?  He  means  to  retire  from  business  to  some 
spot  where  he  can  calmly  enjoy  what  he  has  in  vain 
panted  for  in  the  race  of  life.  Perhaps  he  tries  the 
experiment,  but  finds  himself  restless  still,  and  learns 
the  great  lesson  at  last,  that  peace  is  not  in  the  land 
scape,  but  only  in  the  soul ;  and  the  calm  sky,  the  hori 
zon's  circle,  the  steady  stars,  are  only  its  language,  not 
itself. 

Perhaps  he  seeks  peace  in  his  home.  Everything 
there  is  made  soft  to  the  feet ;  each  chair  and  couch 
receives  him  softly ;  agreeable  sounds,  odours,  viands, 
regale  every  sense :  and  illuminated  chambers  replace 
for  him  at  night  the  splendour  of  the  sun.  But  here 
again  he  is  at  fault.  Peace  comes  not  to  him  thus, 
though  all  the  apparatus  seems  at  hand  to  produce  it. 
Still  he  may  be  outshone  by  a  neighbour ;  or  high  estate 
may  draw  down  upon  him  envy  and  ill-will ;  or  his 
senses  themselves  may  refuse  the  proffered  bliss,  and 
ache  with  disease.  Peace  is  not  in  outward  comforts, 
which  the  constitution  sharply  limits ;  which  pass  with 
time,  or  pall  upon  the  taste.  The  human  mind  is  too 
great  a  thing  to  be  pleased  with  mere  blandishments. 


HUMAN   LONGINGS   FOR   PEACE   AND   REST.  163 

Man  has  a  soul  of  vast  desires ;  and  the  solemn  truth 
will  come  home  irresistibly  at  times,  even  to  the  easy 
epicure.  Something  is  wanting  still.  There  is  more 
of  pain  than  peace  in  the  remnants  of  feasting  and  the 
exhausted  rounds  of  pleasure. 

Man  has  sometimes  sought  peace  in  yet  another  way. 
Abjuring  all  sensual  delights,  he  has  gone  into  the  desert 
to  scourge  the  body,  to  live  on  roots  and  water,  and  be 
absorbed  in  pious  raptures ;  and  often  has  he  thus  suc 
ceeded,  better  than  do  the  vulgar  hunters  of  pleasure. 
But  unrest  mingles  even  with  the  tranquillity  thus  ob 
tained.  His  innocent,  active  powers  resist  this  cruci 
fixion.  The  distant  world  rolls  to  his  ear  the  voices  of 
suffering  fellow-men ;  and  even  his  devotions,  all  lonely, 
become  selfish  and  unsatisfying. 

All  men  are  seeking,  in  a  way  better  or  worse,  this 
same  peace  and  rest.  Some  seek  it  objectively  in  mere 
outward  activity.  They  are  not  unfrequently  frivolous 
and  ill-furnished  within,  seeking  rest  by  travelling,  by 
running  from  place  to  place,  from  company  to  company, 
changing  ever  their  sky  but  never  themselves.  Such 
persons,  deeply  to  be  pitied,  seek  by  dress  to  hide  the 
nakedness  of  their  souls,  or  by  the  gayety  of  their  own 
prattle  to  chill  the  fire  which  burns  away  their  hearts. 
The  merriest  faces  may  be  sometimes  seen  in  mourning 
coaches;  and  so,  the  most  melancholy  souls,  pinched 
and  pining,  sometimes  stare  at  you  out  of  the  midst  of 
superficial  smiles  and  light  laughter. 

Others  seek  rest  in  more  adventurous  action.  Such 
are  mariners,  soldiers,  merchants,  speculators,  politicians, 
travellers,  impelled  to  adventurous  life  to  relieve  the 


164  HUMAN   LONGINGS   FOR  PEACE   AND  BEST. 

aching  void  in  their  hearts.  The  hazards  of  trade,  the 
changes  of  political  life,  cause  them  to  forget  them 
selves,  and  so  they  are  rocked  into  oblivion  of  internal 
disquiet  by  the  toss  of  the  ocean  waves.  They  forget 
the  hollowness  of  their  own  hearts,  and  cheat  themselves 
into  the  belief  that  they  are  on  their  way  to  peace. 

Is  peace,  is  rest,  so  longed  for,  then,  never  to  be 
found  ?  Yes !  it  has  been  found,  though  perhaps  but 
seldom,  and  somewhat  imperfectly.  That  is  a  state  of 
rest  for  the  soul  when  all  man's  powers  work  harmo 
niously  together,  none  conflicting  with  another,  none 
hindering  another.  This  rest  is  complete  when  every 
special  power  in  man's  nature  is  active,  and  works 
towards  some  noble  end,  free  to  act,  yet  acting  entirely 
in  harmony,  each  with  all,  and  all  with  each.  That  is 
what  may  be  called  self-command,  self-possession,  tran 
quillity,  peace,  rest  for  the  soul.  It  is  not  indifference, 
it  is  not  sluggishness ;  it  is  not  sleep :  it  is  activity  in 
its  perfect  character  and  highest  mode. 

Some  few  men  seem  born  for  this.  Their  powers  are 
well-balanced.  But  to  most  it  comes  only  by  labour 
and  life-struggle.  Most  men,  and  above  all,  most  strong 
men,  are  so  born  and  organized,  that  they  feel  the  riddle 
of  the  world,  and  they  have  to  struggle  with  themselves. 
At  first  they  are  not  well-balanced.  One  part  of  theii 
nature  preponderates  over  another,  and  they  are  not  ii 
equilibrium.  Like  the  troubled  sea,  they  cannot  rest 
The  lower  powers  and  propensities  must  be  brought 
into  subjection  to  the  higher.  All  the  powers  must  be 
brought  into  harmony.  This  requires  correct  views  of 
life,  knowledge  of  the  truth,  a  strong  will,  a  resolut 


HUMAN    LONGINGS   FOR  PEACE   AND   REST.  165 

purpose,  a  high  idea,  a  mind  that  learns  by  experience 
to  correct  its  wrongs.  Thus  he  acquires  the  mastery 
over  himself,  and  his  passions  become  his  servants, 
which  were  formerly  masters.  Reason  prevails  over 
feeling,  and  duty  over  impulse.  If  he  has  lost  a  friend, 
he  does  not  mourn  inconsolably,  nor  seek  to  forget  that 
friend.  He  turns  his  thoughts  more  frequently  to  where 
that  friend  has  gone,  and  so  he  goes  on  until  it  becomes 
to  him  a  loss  no  longer,  but  rather  a  gain — a  son, 
daughter,  brother,  or  wife,  immortal  in  the  kingdom  of 
God,  rather  than  mortal  and  perishing  on  earth.  Gra 
dually  he  acquires  a  perfect  command  of  himself,  an 
equilibrium  of  all  his  active  powers,  and  so  is  at  rest. 

What  is  more  beautiful  in  the  earthly  life  of  Jesus, 
than  this  manly  harmony,  equipoise,  and  rest?  He  en 
joyed  peace,  and  promised  it  to  His  friends.  And  this 
peace  of  His,  He  did  not  for  others  postpone  to  a  dis 
tant  day,  or  shut  up  altogether  in  a  future  Heaven,  but 
left  it  to  His  disciples  on  earth.  What,  then,  was  His 
peace  ? 

His  peace  was  not  inactivity.  They  must  mistake 
who  give  a  material  sense  to  the  images  of  Heaven  as 
a  state  of  rest.  If  Christ's  life  represented  Heaven, 
its  peace  is  not  slothful  ease,  but  intense  exertion.  How 
He  laboured  in  word  and  deed  of  virtue !  He  walked 
in  coarse  raiment  from  town  to  town,  from  city  to  city, 
from  the  desert  to  the  waves  of  the  sea.  His  ministry 
was  toil  from  the  day  of  His  baptism  to  the  scene  upon 
Calvary.  And  yet  His  life  was  peace.  He  expressed 
no  wish  to  retire  to  an  unoccupied  ease.  His  absorption 
in  duty  was  His  joy.  He  was  so  peaceful  because  so 


166  HUMAN   LONGINGS   FOR  'PEACE  AND  REST. 

engaged.  His  labours  were  the  elements  of  His  divine 
tranquillity. 

And  so  active  and  earnest  must  \ve  be,  if  we  would 
have  calmness  and  peace.  An  appeal  may  here  be 
made  to  every  one's  experience.  Every  one  will  con 
fess  that  when  he  had  least  to  do,  when  mornings  came 
and  went,  and  suns  circled,  and  seasons  rolled,  and 
brought  no  serious  business,  then  time  was  a  burthen ; 
existence  a  weariness ;  and  the  hungry  soul,  which 
craves  some  outward  satisfaction,  was  found  fallen  back 
upon  itself  and  preying  upon  its  own  vitality.  Are 
not  the  idlest  of  men  proverbially  the  most  miserable  ? 
And  is  not  the  young  woman  often  to  be  seen  passing 
restless  from  place  to  place,  because  exempt  from  the 
necessity  of  industry,  till  vanity  and  envy,  growing 
rank  in  her  vacant  mind,  makes  her  far  more  an  object 
of  compassion  than  those  who  work  hardest  for  a  living  ? 
The  unemployed,  then,  are  not  the  most  peaceful.  The 
labourer  has  a  deeper  peace  than  any  idler  ever  knew. 
His  toils  make  his  short  pauses  refreshing.  Were  those 
pauses  prolonged  they  would  be  invaded  by  a  miserable 
ennui.  Perfect  peace  will  be  found  here  or  hereafter, 
not  when  we  sink  down  into  torpor,  but  only  when  the 
soul  is  wrought  into  high  action  for  high  ends. 

Another  element  of  the  peace  of  Jesus  was  His  sin- 
lessness.  And  all  human  experience  testifies  that  no 
thing  has  so  much  disturbed  tranquillity  as  conscious 
guilt,  or  the  memory  of  wrong-doing.  Peace  is  forfeited 
by  every  transgression.  Angry  words,  envious  looks, 
unkind  and  selfish  deeds,  will  all  prevent  peace  from 
visiting  our  hearts. 


BE  STRONG."  167 


We  have  noticed  already  another  element  of  peac< 
mental  and  moral  harmony.  There  is  a  spiritual  pro 
portion  when  every  power  does  its  work,  every  feeling 
fills  its  measure,  and  all  make  a  common  current  to  bear 
the  soul  along  to  ever  new  peace  and  joy.  Our  inward 
discords  are  the  woes  of  life.  The  peaceful  heart  is 
quiet,  not  because  inactive,  but  through  intense  harmo 
nious  working. 

The  cravings  of  the  human  heart  for  peace  and  rest 
must  seek  satisfaction  in  the  ways  indicated,  or  fail  of 
satisfaction.  There  must  be  activity,  abstinence  from 
guilt,  and  moral  harmony.  Thus  alone  can  we  receive 
the  peace  which  Jesus  said  He  would  leave  to  His  true 
followers. 


"BE    STRONG." 

IN  the  flush,  and  the  rush,  and  the  crush  of  Life's  battle, 
When  the  stern  blow  of  Eight  dashes  loud  on  steeled  Wrong, 

Half-drowning  the  voice  of  the  babe's  holy  prattle, 
Remember  the  watchword — the  motto — "  Be  strong  I" 

When  the  clouds  of  the  past  gather  brooding  above  thee, 
And  gloam  o'er  thy  pillow  the  aching  night  long, 

Remember  who  never  for  once  failed  to  love  thee, 
And  in  deepest  of  loneliness  thou  wilt  be  strong  ! 

When  the  rays  of  the  morning  seem  slow  in  their  beaming, 
Overpowered  the  firm  Right — most  tremendous  bold  Wrong, 

Let  not  thy  Thought's  eye  grow  the  dimmer  for  streaming, 
Pour  thy  tears  in  Faith's  bosom — thou  yet  wilt  BE  STRONG 


THE   NEGLECTED  ONE. 

"  I  never  was  a  favourite  ; 

My  mother  never  smiled 
On  me  with  half  the  tenderness 
That  blessed  her  fairer  child." 

"  CHRISTINE,  do  be  obliging  for  once,  and  sew  this 
button  on  my  glove,  won't  you?"  cried  Ann  Lambert, 
impatiently,  throwing  a  white  kid  glove  in  her  sister's 
lap.  "  I  am  in  such  a  flurry  !  I  won't  be  ready  to  go  to 
the  concert  in  two  or  three  hours.  Mr.  Darcet  has 
been  waiting  in  the  parlour  an  age.  I  don't  know  what 
the  reason  is,  but  I  never  can  find  anything  I  want, 
when  I  look  for  it ;  whenever  I  don't  want  a  thing,  it  is 
always  in  the  way.  Have  you  sewed  it  on  yet?"  she 
asked,  looking  around  from  the  bureau,  where  she  was 
turning  everything  topsy  turvy,  in  the  most  vigorous 
manner.  Christine  was  quietly  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow,  yawning  and  gazing  listlessly  up  at  the  moon  and 
stars. 

"  0  no  matter  if  you  have  no  button  on,"  was  her 
reply ;  "  I  really  don't  feel  like  moving  my  fingers  just 
now.  You  must  wait  on  yourself.  I  always  do." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  expected  anything  but  your  usual 
idle  selfishness,  even  when  I  most  need  your  assistance," 
replied  Ann,  in  a  cool,  bitter  tone ;  the  curve  of  her 
beautiful  lip,  and  the  calm  scorn  of  the  look  she  bent 
on  Christine,  betrayed  her  haughty,  passionate  char 
acter,  and  it  also  told  that  she  was  conscious  of  a 


THE   NEGLECTED   ONE.  169 

certain  power  and  strength  of  mind,  which  when  roused, 
could  and  would  bend  others  to  her  will.  A  slight, 
contemptuous  smile  was  on  her  lip,  as  she  picked  up 
the  glove  which  had  fallen  on  the  floor. 

"  I'll  sew  the  button  on,  Ann,"  said  Christine,  taking 
it  from  her,  and  looking  up  seriously,  but  with  a  com 
pressed  expression  about  her  face.  Her  cheeks  burned ; 
there  was  a  reproof  in  her  steady  gaze,  before  which 
Ann's  scornful  smile  vanished.  "  No,  Christine,  I  will 
wait  on  myself,"  she  answered  in  a  rigid  tone. 

"Very  well,"  and  Christine  turned  to  the  window 
again.  She  had  not  quailed  before  her  sister's  look, 
but  its  bitter  contempt  rankled  in  her  heart,  and 
poisoned  the  current  of  her  thoughts.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken,  when  Ann  with  her  bonnet  on,  left  their  apart 
ment.  The  front  door  closed ;  Christine  listened  to  the 
sound  of  her  sister's  voice  in  the  street  a  moment,  then 
rose  from  her  chair,  and  threw  herself  upon  the  bed, 
sobbing  violently. 

"  Oh !  why  has  God  made  me  as  I  am  ?"  she  mur 
mured.  No  one  loves  me.  They  do  not  know  me ;  they 
know  how  bad  I  am — but,  oh !  they  never  dream  how 
often  I  weep,  and  pray  for  the  affection  that  is  denied 
me.  How  Ann  is  caressed  by  everybody,  and  how  indif 
ferently  am  I  greeted !  There  is  no  one  in  the  wide 
world  who  takes  a  deep  interest  in  me.  I  am  only 
secondary  with  father  and  mother  ;  they  are  so  proud 
of  Ann's  beauty  and  talent,  they  do  not  think  to  see 
whether  I  am  possessed  of  talent  or  not.  They  think  1 
am  cold  and  heartless,  because  they  have  taught  me  to 
restrain  my  warmest  feelings;  they  have  turned  me 


170  THE  NEGLECTED  ONE. 

back  upon  myself,  they  have  forced  me  to  shut  up  in  my 
own  heart,  its  bitterness,  its  prayers  for  affection,  its 
pride,  its  sorrow.  They  have  made  me  selfish,  disoblig 
ing,  and  disagreeable,  because  I  am  too  proud  to  act  as 
if  I  would  beg  the  love  they  are  so  careless  of  bestowing. 
And  yet,  why  am  I  so  proud  and  so  bitter  ?  I  was  not 
so  at  school ;  then  I  was  gentle  and  gay ;  then  I  too 
was  a  favourite ;  they  called  me  amiable.  I  am  not  so 
now.  Then  I  dwelt  in  an  atmosphere  of  love,  only  the 
best  impulses  of  my  nature  were  called  out.  Now — oh ! 
I  did  not  know  I  could  so  change ;  I  did  not  know  that 
there  was  room  in  my  heart  for  envy  and  jealousy.  I 
did  not  know  myself!" 

Christine  wept,  until  her  head  ached,  and  her  forehead 
felt  as  if  it  was  swelled  almost  to  bursting.  "  After  a 
storm,  there  comes  a  calm,"  is  a  truism  well  known. 
In  about  ha'lf  an  hour,  she  was  sleeping  profoundly, 
from  mere  exhaustion  of  feeling.  But  her  face  was 
pale,  and  sad  to  look  upon,  even  in  her  sleep. 

When  Ann  returned  home,  at  a  late  hour,  she  glanced 
hastily  at  the  bed,  to  see  if  she  had  retired,  and  was 
sleeping.  More  than  once  during  the  evening  her  heart 
had  reproached  her  for  the  part  she  had  acted.  With  a 
noiseless  step  she  approached  Christine,  and  bent  over 
her.  The  tear-drop  upon  her  pale  cheek,  revealed  the 
unconscious  girl  to  her  in  a  new  character.  How  her 
conscience  smote  her,  for  the  grief  upon  that  counte 
nance,  now  so  subdued  by  the  spirit  of  sleep  !  Its  meek 
sadness  and  tenderness  stirred  in  her  bosom  feelings 
she  had  seldom  experienced.  She  felt  and  understood 
better  than  ever  before,  her  sister's  proud  reserve  with 


THE   NEGLECTED  "ONE.  171 

herself,  as  well  as  every  one  else.  She  kissed  away  the 
tear,  and  knelt  at  the  bedside  in  prayer,  a  thing  she  had 
not  done  for  years.  A  flood  of  tender  and  self-reproach 
ful  feelings  came  over  her ;  the  spring  was  touched,  and 
she  wept  aloud.  Christine  started  up,  and  murmured  a 
few  broken  sentences,  before  she  was  fully  conscious  of 
the  meaning  of  the  scene. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Ann,  are  you  crying?"  she  at 
length  asked,  as  her  sister  lifted  up  her  face.  Ann 
arose  from  her  knees ;  she  hesitated,  she  felt  as  if  she 
could  throw  herself  into  Christine's  arms,  and  weep 
freely  as  she  asked  forgiveness  for  her  conduct.  She 
felt  that  she  would  be  affectionately  pardoned.  And 
yet  she  stood  silent ;  her  heart  brimming  with  tender 
ness  all  the  while — something  held  her  back ;  a  some 
thing  that  too  often  chills  a  pure  impulse,  a  gush  of  holy 
feeling.  It  was  pride.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to 
speak  words  of  penitence  and  humility.  But  she  did 
not  turn  away  from  the  anxious  gaze  riveted  upon  her ; 
she  drooped  her  eyes,  and  the  tears  rolled  slowly  down 
her  face. 

"  Oh,  Ann,  dear  Ann,  this  does  not  seem  like  you !" 
said  Christine,  tenderly  approaching  her.  "  I  am  your 
sister ;  if  you  have  any  sorrow,  why  may  I  not  sympa 
thize  with  you?  How  can  you  be  sorrowful?  you  never 
meet  with  neglect,  and — "the  young  girl  paused  hastily, 
with  a  suddenly  flushed  face ;  she  had  inadvertently 
betrayed  what  she  had  previously  so  carefully  concealed 
under  the  mask  of  callous  indifference — she  had  shown 
that  she  felt  keenly  her  own  position,  and  that  of  her 
sister  as  a  favourite.  Ann  was  proud  of  her  intellect 


172  THE   NEGLECTED   ONE. 

and  fascinating  beauty ;  she  was  selfishly  fond  of  admi 
ration.  She  knew  that  her  sister  was  really  as  gifted  as 
herself,  if  not  more  so  ;  she  had  heard  her  converse  at 
times,  when  her  cheek  glowed,  and  her  eye  kindled  with 
enthusiasm.  She  had  seen  her,  very  rarely,  but  still 
she  had  seen  her,  when  expression  had  lit  up  her  face 
with  a  positive  beauty — when  the  soul,  the  life  of  beauty 
beamed  forth,  and  went  to  the  heart  with  a  thrill  that 
acknowledged  its  power.  She  knew  that  she  would  have 
been  brilliant  and  fascinating,  if  she  had  not  been 
repressed ;  with  all  her  faults,  there  was  a  more  femi 
nine  yieldingness  about  her,  than  about  herself.  There 
was  an  affectionate  pathos  in  her  voice,  a  tender  grace 
in  her  air,  when  she  asked  to  sympathize  in  her  sorrow. 
Ann  felt  for  the  first  time  fully,  that  she  was  one  to 
love,  and  be  beloved  in  the  social  circle.  She  felt  that 
she  had  been  most  ungenerous  to  absorb  all  the  attention 
of  her  friends,  instead  of  bringing  forward  the  reserved, 
sensitive  Christine.  The  sisters  had  never  been  much 
together ;  they  had  never  made  confidants  of  each 
pther; — Ann  was  the  eldest,  and  all  in  all  with  her 
parents,  while  Christine  was  a  sort  of  appendage.  Ann 
felt  the  unintentional  reproach  conveyed  in  her  last 
words;  she  marked  how  quickly  she  stopped,  and 
seemed  to  retire  within  herself  again ;  she  scanned  her 
face  closely,  and  generous  feelings  triumphed. 

"  Dear  Christine !"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  passing 
her  arm  around  her.  "We  have  never  been  to  each 
other  what  sisters  ought  to  be.  I  have  been  too  thought 
less  and  careless ;  I  have  not  remembered  as  I  should 
have  done,  that  you  returned  from  school,  a  stranger  to 


THE   NEGLECTED   ONE.  173 

the  majority  of  our  friends  and  acquaintances.  You  are 
so  reserved,  even  here  at  home;  you  never  talk  and 
laugh  with  father  and  mother  as  I  do." 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  appear  cold,  Ann  ?  I  am  not 
so  by  nature.  They  do  not  seem  to  care  when  I  speak, 
and  I  am  not  yet  humble  enough  to  have  what  I  say 
treated  with  perfect  indifference." 

"Why,  Christine,  you  are  too  sensitive,"  said  Ann, 
half  impatiently.  "Be  as  noisy  and  lively  as  I  am ; 
entertain  father,  and  say  what  will  please  mother ;  then 
you  will  be  as  great  a  pet  as  I." 

"  Even  if  I  should  value  love,  based  upon  my  powers 
of  pleasing,  instead  of  the  intrinsic  worth  of  my  charac 
ter,  I  could  not  gain  it,  Ann.  I  came  home,  after  my 
long  absence,  as  merry  and  light-hearted,  as  full  of 
hope,  of  love  towards  you  all,  as  ever  a  happy  school 
girl  did.  Then  I  was  seventeen;  it  seems  as  if  long 
years  had  elapsed  since  the  day  I  sprang  into  your  arms 
so  joyfully — since  father  and  mother  kissed  me.  Home, 
sweet  home,  how  musical  those  words  were  to  me !  how 
often  I  had  dreamed  of  nestling  at  father's  side,  your 
hand  locked  in  mine,  and  mother's  smile  upon  us  both. 
It  was  not  long  before  I  was  awakened  from  the  dream 
I  had  cherished  so  long.  I  thought  my  heart  would 
break  when  the  reality  that  I  was  unloved,  came  upon 
me.  Then  I  learned  how  deep  were  the  fountains  of 
tenderness  within  me.  My  heart  overflowed  with  an 
intense  desire  for  affection,  when  I  saw  that  I  did  not 
possess  it.  Oh !  how  often  I  looked  upon  mother's  face, 
unobserved,  and  felt  that  my  love  for  her  was  but  a 
wasted  shower.  At  that  time  of  bitterness,  how  sad  was 


174  THE   NEGLECTED   ONE. 

the  revelation  that  came  up  from  the  very  depths  of  my 
soul,  teaching  me  a  truth  fraught  with  suffering — that 
affection  is  life  itself!  I  felt  that  it  was  my  destiny 
never  to  be  cheered  by  its  blessed  light  and  warmth. 
Months  passed  away,  and  I  closed  up  my  heart ;  a  cold 
ness,  a  stoic  apathy  came  over  me,  which  was  sometimes 
broken  by  a  slight  thing ;  the  flood-gates  of  feeling  gave 
way,  and  I  wept  with  a  passionate  sorrow — over  my  own 
sinfulness — over  my  own  lonely  heart,  without  one  joy 
to  shed  a  glow  on  its  rude  desolation.  Oh  !  then,  when 
I  was  softened,  when  I  could  pray,  and  feel  that  the 
Lord  listened  to  me,  I  would  have  been  a  different 
being,  if  mother's  hand  had  been  laid  fondly  upon  my 
head,  if  her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears,  and  I  could  have 
leaned  upon  her  bosom  and  wept.  But  I  was  unloved, 
and  my  heart  grew  hard  again." 

"  Don't  say  that  you  are  unloved,"  interrupted  Ann, 
pressing  Christine  to  her  heart,  and  sobbing  with  an 
abandonment  of  feeling.  "  Forgive  me,  dear,  dear  sister ! 
my  heart  shall  be  your  home — we  will  love  each  other 
always ;  I  will  never  again  be  as  I  have  been.  Don't 
weep  so,  Christine,  can't  you  believe  me  ?  I  am  selfish, 
I  am  heartless  sometimes,  but  a  change  has  come  over 
me  to-night;  to  you  I  can  never  be  heartless  again  !" 

At  that  moment,  few  would  have  recognised  the 
haughty  Miss  Lambert  in  the  tearful  girl,  whose  head 
drooped  on  Christine's  shoulder,  while  her  white  hand 
was  clasped  and  held  in  meek  affection  to  her  lips.  If 
we  could  read  the  private  history  of  many  an  apparently 
cold,  heartless  being,  we  would  be  more  charitable  in 
our  opinions  of  others.  We  would  see  that  there  are 


THE   NEGLECTED   ONE.  175 

times  when  the  better  feelings,  which  God  has  given  as 
a  pure  inheritance,  are  touched.  We  would  see  the 
inner  life  from  Him,  flowing  down  from  its  home  in  the 
hidden  recesses  of  the  soul,  breaking  and  scattering  the 
clouds  of  evil,  which  had  impeded  its  descent — we  would 
see  the  hard  heart  melted,  though  perhaps  briefly, 
beneath  angel  influences.  We  would  see  that  all  alike 
are  the  beloved  creations  of  the  Almighty's  hand,  and 
we  would  weep  over  ourselves,  as  well  as  others,  to  feel 
how  seldom  we  yield  to  the  voice  that  would  ever  lead 
us  aright.  Ann  Lambert,  as  her  heart  overflowed  with 
pure  affection,  thought  sincerely  that  no  selfish  action 
of  hers  should  ever  sadden  Christine.  She  felt  that  she 
was  unworthy,  that  she  had  been  cruel  and  selfish,  but 
she  imagined  her  strong  emotions  of  repentance  had 
uprooted  the  evils,  which  had  only  been  shaken. 

Christine  dried  her  tears,  and  looked  earnestly  and 
inquiringly  in  her  sister's  face,  as  if  she  suspected  there 
was  some  hidden  sorrow  with  which  she  was  unac 
quainted.  Ann  answered  her  look  by  saying, 

"  You  wonder  what  I  was  weeping  for,  when  you 
awoke,  Christine.  I  had  met  with  no  sorrow ;  but  when 
I  looked  at  you,  the  course  of  conduct  I  had  pursued 
towards  you  came  up  before  me  vividly :  I  felt  how 
unsisterly  I  had  been — " 

"  Say  nothing  about  it,"  interrupted  Christine,  with 
delicate  generosity,  "let  the  past  be  forgotten,  the 
future  shall  be  all  brightness,  dearest  Ann.  We  will 
pour  out  our  hearts  to  each  other,  and  each  will 
strengthen  the  other  in  better  purposes.  I  am  n» 
longer  alone,  you  love  me  and  I  am  happy." 


176  THE   NEGLECTED  ONE. 

That  night,  the  dreams  of  the  sisters  were  pure  and 
peaceful.  One  happy  week  passed  away  with  Christine ; 
Ann  was  affectionate  and  gentle,  and  only  went  out 
when  accompanied  by  her.  They  were  inseparable ; 
they  read,  wrote,  studied,  and  sewed  together.  For 
the  time,  Ann  seemed  to  have  laid  aside  her  usual 
character ;  she  yielded  to  her  purest  feelings ;  no  inci 
dent  had  yet  occurred  to  mar  her  tranquillity.  One 
evening,  when  she  was  reading  aloud  to  Christine  in  their 
own  apartment,  a  servant  girl  threw  open  the  door  and 
exclaimed, 

"  Miss  Ann,  there  are  two  gentlemen  waiting  in  the 
parlour  to  see  you;  Mr.  Darcet  and  Mr.  Burns  !" 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Ann,  rising,  and  giving  the 
book  to  Christine ;  but  she  took  it  away  in  the  instant, 
and  said, 

"  Come,  Crissy,  go  down  with  me  !" 

"  Oh,  no  matter,"  replied  her  sister,  "  I  am  not  ac 
quainted  with  them,  and  I  would  rather  stay  up  here, 
and  read.  Mother  will  be  in  the  parlour." 

"  Suit  yourself,"  returned  Ann,  half  carelessly,  as 
she  smoothed  her  hair.  "  When  you  get  tired  of  read 
ing,  come  down." 

"I'll  see  about  it,"  said  Christine,  as  the  door  closed. 

Ann  looked  beautiful  indeed,  as  she  entered  the 
parlour,  her  features  lit  up  with  a  smile  of  graceful 
welcome.  After  a  little  easy  trifling,  the  conversation 
turned  upon  subjects  which  she  knew  Christine  would 
be  interested  in.  Under  a  kind  impulse,  she  left  the 
room,  and  hastened  to  her. 

"  Come  down  into  the  parlour,  Christine,"  she  ex- 


THE   NEGLECTED   ONE.  177 

claimed,  laying  her  hand .  affectionately  upon  her 
shoulder,  as  she  approached.  "  Mr.  Darcet  is  telling 
about  his  travels  in  Europe,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  he 
interested.  There  isn  o  need  of  your  being  so  unso 
ciable.  Come,  dear !" 

Christine  raised  her  face  with  an  eloquent  smile ;  she 
went  with  Ann  without  speaking,  but  her  heart  was 
filled  with  a  sweet  happiness,  from  this  proof  of  thought 
ful  affection.  When  she  was  introduced  to  Ann's 
friends,  there  was  a  most  lovely  expression  on  her  face, 
breathing  forth  from  a  pure  joy  fulness  within. 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  a  sister,  Miss  Lam 
bert,"  said  Mr.  Darcet,  turning  to  Ann,  when  they  were 
quietly  seated  after  a  brief  admiring  gaze  at  Christine. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  been  too  much  of  a  recluse,"  replied 
Christine  quickly,  in  order  to  relieve  the  embarrassment 
of  Ann,  which  was  manifested  by  a  deep  blush.  "I 
have  yielded  to  sister  Ann's  persuasions  this  fame  to  be 
a  little  sociable,  and  I  think  I  shall  make  this  a  begin 
ning  of  sociabilities." 

"I  hope  so,"  returned  Darcet;  "do  you  think  being 
much  secluded,  has  a  beneficial  effect  upon  the  mind  and 
feelings  ?" 

"  I  do  not,"  was  the  young  girl's  brief  answer.  The 
colour  came  to  her  cheek,  and  a  painful  expression 
crossed  her  brow,  an  instant.  "  But  sometimes — "  the 
sentence  was  left  unfinished.  Darcet's  curiosity  was 
awakened  by  the  sudden  quiver  of  Christine's  lip,  and 
forgetful  of  what  he  was  about,  he  perused  her  counte 
nance  longer,  and  more  eagerly,  than  was  perfectly 
polite  or  delicate.  She  felt  his  scrutiny,  and  was  vexed 
12 


178  THE  NEGLECTED   ONE. 

•with  her  tell-tale  face.    There  was  a  silence  which  Mrs. 
Lambert  interrupted  by  saying,  with  a  smile, 

"We  should  like  to  hear  more  of  your  adventures, 
Mr.  Dareet,  if  it  is  agreeable  to  you." 

"  Oh !  certainly !"  he  replied.  And  he  whiled  an  hour 
quickly  away.  Ann  was  then  urged  to  play  and  sing, 
which  she  did,  but  there  was  a  little  haughtiness  mingled 
with  her  usual  grace. 

"Don't  you  sing,  Miss  Christine?"  asked  Darcet, 
leaving  the  piano,  and  approaching  the  window  where 
she  sat,  listening  attentively  to  Ann. 

"I  do  sometimes,"  answered  Christine,  smiling,  "but 
Ann  sings  far  better." 

"Let  others  judge  of  that.     Isn't  that  fair?" 

"  We  often  err  in  thinking  we  do  better  than  other 
people,  but  I  think  we  generally  hit  the  truth,  when  we 
discover  that  in  some  things,  at  least,  we  are  not  quite 
as  perfect'as  others." 

,  "  Certainly,  but  it  is  the  custom  to  speak  of  ourselves, 
as  if  we  were  inferior  to  those  whom  we  really  regard  as 
beneath  us  in  many  respects.  There  is  no  true  humility 
in  that ;  we  depart  from  the  truth." 

"  Custom  sanctions  many  falsehoods ;  to  speak  the 
truth  always,  would  make  us  many  enemies.  But  we 
might  better  have  them,  than  to  contradict  the  truth ; 
what  do  you  think?"  Christine  looked  up  with  an 
earnest  seriousness. 

"  Truth,  and  truth  alone,  should  govern  us  in  every 
situation,  let  the  consequences  be  what  they  may,"  said 
Dareet,  in  a  tone  that  sounded  almost  stern ;  then  more 
gently  he  added,  "  Before  all  things  I  prize  a  frank 


THE   NEGLECTED   ONE.  179 

spirit ;  for  heaven  may  be  reflected  there.  With  all, 
this  upright  candour  must  in  a  measure  be  acquired. 
Yet,  I  think  frankness  to  our  own  souls  is  acquired  with 
far  more  labour.  We  shrink  from  a  severe  scrutiny  into 
our  tangled  motives." 

"And  when  these  motives  are  forced  upon  our  notice, 
we  endeavour  to  palliate  and  excuse  them.  I  am  sure 
it  is  so,"  exclaimed  Christine  earnestly,  for  her  own 
young  heart's  history  came  up  before  her,  and  she 
remembered  that  she  had  excused  herself  for  acting 
and  feeling  wrong,  on  the  plea  that  others  had  not 
done  right  by  her.  "But" — she  continued  after  a 
pause,  "  you  cannot  think  it  is  well  always  to  express 
the  sentiments  whiclf^circumstances  may  give  rise  to. 
Such  a  course  might  prevent  us  from  doing  a  great  deal 
of  good." 

"  Certainly  it  might.  The  end  in  view  should  be 
regarded.  Good  sense,  and  a  pure  heart,  will  show  us 
the  best  way  in  most. cases." 

There  is  a  power  deep  and  silent,  exerted  by  good 
persons ;  the  folded  blossoms  of  the  heart  slowly  open 
in  their  presence,  and  are  refreshed.  A  new  impulse, 
a  pure  aspiration  for  a  higher  life,  a  yearning  after  the 
perfecting  of  our  nature,  may  be  sown  as  a  seed  in 
hearts  that  are  young  in  the  work  of  self-conquest. 
Thus  it  was  with  Christine.  The  influence  of  Darcet 
strengthened  all  that  was  good  within  her ;  and  as  they 
remained  long  engaged  in  deep  and  earnest  conversation, 
the  elevation  and  purity  of  his  sentiments  gave  clear 
ness  and  strength  to  ideas  that  had  been  obscure  to  her 
before,  because  unexpressed.  Her  peculiar  situation 


180  THE   NEGLECTED   ONJC. 

had  made  her  far  more  thoughtful  than  many  of  her 
years.  She  thought  she  had  lost  the  gay  buoyancy 
of  her  childhood,  but  she  was  mistaken.  She  was  one 
to  profit  by  lessons  that  pressed  down  the  bounding 
lightness  of  her  spirit ;  she  was  yet  to  learn  that  she 
could  grow  young  in  glad  feelings,  as  years  rolled  over 
her  head.  There  was  a  subdued  joy  in  her  heart,  that 
was  new  to  her,  and  gave  a  sweetness  to  her  manner,  as 
she  poured  forth  the  guileless  thoughts  that  first  rose  to 
her  lips.  It  seemed  strange  to  meet  with  the  ardent 
sympathy  which  Darcet  manifested  by  every  look  of  his 
intelligent  face ;  she  could  scarcely  realize  that  it  was 
herself,  that  anybody  really  felt  interested  in  the 
thoughts  and  imaginings  that  had  clustered  around  her 
solitary  hours.  At  parting,  he  said  with  warm  interest, 
as  he  slightly  pressed  her  hand,  "I  hope,  Miss  Christine, 
we  may  have  many  conversations  on  the  subjects  we 
have  touched  upon  to-night." 

"  Oh !  I  hope  so,"  replied  Christine,  with  a  frank, 
bright  smile.  After  the  gentlemen  had  gone,  Christine 
threw  her  arm  around  her  sister,  and  said  gayly, 
"  Hav'n't  we  had  a  pleasant  evening,  Ann,  my  dear  ?" 

"Pleasant  enough,"  said  Ann,  trying  to  yawn,  "but 
I  felt  rather  stupid,  as  I  often  do." 

"  Stupid  !  Is  it  possible  ?"  exclaimed  the  astonished 
girl.  "You  were  talking  with  Mr.  Burns;  well,  he 
didn't  look  as  if  he  would  ever  set  the  North  River  afire 
with  his  energies,  it  is  true." 

Ann  smiled  very  slightly,  then  rathfr  pettishly  disen 
gaged  herself  from  the  detaining  hand  of  Christine,  and 
taking  a  light,  retired  without  saying  anything,  but  a 


THE   NEGLECTED   ONE.  181 

brief  good-night  to  her  mother.  Christine  soon  followed, 
wondering  what  made  Ann  so  mute  and  sharp  in  her 
actions.  "Why,  Ann,  are  you  angry  with  me?"  she 
asked,  going  up  to  her,  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  apart 
ment. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  be  angry  for,"  was  the 
impatient  reply.  "  Can't  a  person  be  a  little  short  when 
Bleepy,  without  being  tormented  with  questions  about 
it?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  won't  trouble  you  any  more."  And 
making  due  allowance  for  Ann's  quick  temper,  Chris 
tine  occupied  herself  good-humouredly  with  her  own 
thoughts.  The  secret  of  Ann's  shortness  and  sleepiness 
lay  here.  Her  vanity  was  wounded  to  think,  that 
Christine  was  more  interesting  than  her  own  beautiful 
self. 

"  Well,  he  is  a  sort  of  a  puritan,  and  now  I  begin  to 
understand  Christine,  better,  I  think  she  is  too,"  thought 
Ann,  after  she  had  mused  her  irritation  away  a  little. 
"He  is  very  polite  and  agreeable,  and  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  have  him  always  ready  to  take  me  out  when 
I  wanted  to  go,  but  I  never  felt  perfectly  easy  in  his 
company ;  I  was  always  afraid  I  might  say  something 
dreadful;  something  that  would  shock  his  wonderful 
goodness.  But  Christine  seemed  perfectly  at  home. 
How  bright  and  lovely  she  looked !  I  will  not  allow  evil 
thoughts  to  triumph  over  me.  I  will  not  be  vexed 
simply  because  she  eclipsed  me,  where  no  one  ever  did 
before.  She  is  a  dear,  affectionate  girl,  and  I  made  a 
vow  before  God  to  love  her  always,  never  to  be  to  her  as 
I  was  once." 


182  THE   NEGLECTED   ONE. 

A  fervent  prayer  brought  back  to  Ann  all  her  former 
tranquillity,  and  she  pressed  a  kiss  upon  Christine's  fore 
head,  full  of  repentant  affection.  Just  before  she  went 
to  sleep,  she  thought  to  herself, 

"  Well,  if  I  may  trust  my  woman's  perception,  Darcet 
will  be  exclaiming,  after  he  has  seen  Christine  a  few 
times  more, 

"  Oh !  love,  young  love,  bound  in  thy  rosy  bands." 

Ann's  perception  proved  correct.  About  a  year 
after  these  cogitations,  Christine  became  Mrs.  Darcet. 
The  sisters  were  much  changed,  but  Christine  the  most 
so.  There  was  a  child-like  simplicity  and  sweetness 
beaming  from  her  young  face,  which  Ann  needed.  Yet 
had  much  haughtiness  faded  from  the  brow  of  that  beau 
tiful  girl ;  she  had  grown  better ;  but  as  yet  her  heart 
had  not  been  schooled  in  suffering  as  Christine's  had. 
There  was  deep  affection  in  the  warm  tears  that  fell 
upon  the  bride's  cheek,  as  poor  Ann  felt  that  she  had 
indeed  gone  to  bless  another  with  her  tender  goodness. 
Christine's  warm  heart  grew  yet  more  sunny  in  her 
own  happy  little  home,  and  her  feelings  more  open 
and  expansive,  beneath  the  genial  influence  of  friendly 
eyes. 


THE  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

TWILIGHT. — The  dewy  morning  of  childhood  has 
passed,  and  the  noon  of  youth  has  gone,  and  the  gloom 
of  twilight  is  gathering  over  my  spirit.  Alas !  alas ! 
how  my  heart  sinks  in  a  wan  despair !  One  by  one  my 
hopes  have  died  out,  have  faded  like  the  gleams  of  sun 
shine  that  have  just  vanished  beneath  the  grove  of  trees. 
Hopes  !  Ah,  such  warm,  bright,  beautiful,  loving  hopes  ! 
But,  methinks,  they  lived  upon  the  earth,  unlike  the 
gleaming  rays  of  sunshine  that  are  fed  from  heaven. 
The  earth's  darkness  dims  not  their  glory;  pure  and 
radiant  they  shine  behind  the  black  shadow.  But  human 
hopes  are  earth-born ;  they  spring  from  the  earth,  like 
the  flitting  light  of  night,  and  lead  us  into  bogs  and 
quagmires. 

Yet  it  is  beautiful  to  realize  that  we  have  had  hopes ; 
they  are  the  past  light  of  the  soul,  and  their  glow  yet 
lingers  in  this  gloomy  twilight,  reminding  one  that  there 
has  been  a  sunny  day,  and  memories  of  things  pleasant 
and  joyous  mingle  with  the  present  loneliness  and  cheer 
less  desolation. 

Words,  that  excited  hopes,  that  awoke  thrilling  emo 
tions,  linger  on  the  listening  ear.  But,  ah  !  the  heart 
grows  very  sad,  when  the  ear  listens  in  vain,  and  the 
yearning,  unsatisfied  spirit  realizes  that  the  words,  so 
loved,  so  fondly  dwelt  upon,  were  but  words,  empty, 
vain  words.  But,  to  have  believed  them,  was  a  fleeting 
blindness.,  They  served  for  food  to  the  yearning  heart, 


184  THE   HOURS   OF   LIFE. 

when  they  were  given,  and  shall  the  traveller  through 
the  desolate  wilderness  look  back  with  scorn  upon  the 
bread  and  water  that  once  satisfied  his  hunger  and  thirst, 
even  though  it  is  now  withheld  ?  No — let  him  be  thank 
ful  for  the  past ;  otherwise,  the  keen  biting  hunger,  the 
thirsty  anguish  of  the  soul,  will  have  a  bitterness  and  a 
gall  in  it,  that  will  corrode  his  whole  being.  Ah  I 
what  is  this  being  ?  if  one  could  but  understand  one's 
own  existence,  what  a  relief  it  would  be ;  but  to  under 
stand  nothing — alas ! 

Life  is  a  weary  burden.  I  feel  weighed  down  with  it, 
and  I  do  not  know  what  is  in  the  pack  that  bows  me  so 
wearily  to  the  earth.  I  do  know  that  in  it  are  agonized 
feelings,  bitter  disappointments,  and  a  desolation  of  the 
heart.  But  there  is  a  something  else  in  it ;  for,  now  and 
then,  come  vague,  vast  perceptions  of  a  dim  future ;  but 
I  shut  my  eyes.  I  cannot  look  beyond  the  earth.  I 
could  have  been  satisfied  here  with  a  very  little ;  a  little 
of  human  love  would  have  made  me  so  happy.  Yes,  I 
would  never  have  dreamed  of  an  unknown  heaven. 
Heaven!  What  is  heaven?  I  remember  when  I  was  a 
little  child,  lying  on  my  bed  in  the  early  morning  twi 
light  (ah !  that  was  a  twilight,  unlike  this,  which  13 
sinking  into  a  black  night,  for  that  was  ushering  in  t'ne 
beautiful  golden  day),  but  it  was  twilight  when  I  looked 
through  the  uncurtained  window ;  and  through  the  in 
tertwining  branches  of  a  noble  tree  I  saw  the  far,  dim, 
misty  sky — and  I  wondered,  in  my  childish  way,  "  if 
heaven  is  like  that ;"  and  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  dim,  distant  sky  opened,  and  my  dead  mother's 
face  looked  out  upon  me  so  beautifully,  I  did  not  know 


THE   HOURS   OP   LIFE.  185 

her,  for  she  died  when  I  was  an  unconscious  infant,  and 
yet  I  did  know  her.  Yes,  that  beautiful  face  was  my 
mother's,  and  my  heart  was  full  of  delight.  That  my 
mother  could  see  me,  and  love  me,  from  the  far  heavens, 
was  like  a  revelation  to  me.  And  often,  on  other  morn 
ings,  I  awakened  and  looked  through  the  very  same 
branches  of  the  tree,  out  into  the  far  sky,  and  thought 
to  see  my  mother's  face  shining  through  the  window  and 
watching  over  her  lonely,  sleeping  child.  But  my  fancy 
never  again  conjured  up  the  vision.  Fancy !  What  is 
fancy  ?  If  one  could  but  understand,  could  grasp  the 
phantom  and  mystery  of  life !  And  above  all,  if  one 
could  but  understand  what  heaven  ist******* 

When  I  was  a  child,  heaven  was  to  me  a  peopled 
place,  a  wonderful  reality;  and  I  remember  a  dream 
that  I  had — what  a  strange  dream  it  was  !  For  I  went 
to  heaven,  and  I  saw  a  shining  One,  sitting  on  a  throne, 
and  many  beautiful  ones  were  standing  and  seated 
around  the  throne,  and  my  father  and  mother  were 
there  ;  and  they  had  crowns  on  their  heads,  and  held 
each  other  by  the  hand,  and  looked  down  upon  me  so 
lovingly.  I  knew  that  it  was  my  father,  because  my 
mother  held  him  by  the  hand,  though  my  father  died 
the  day  I  was  born,  and  I  stood  before  them  in  the  great 
light  of  a  Heavenly  Presence,  as  such  a  poor  little 
earth-child,  but  I  was  happy,  inexpressibly  happy,  only 
they  did  not  touch  me ;  but  I  was  not  fit  to  be  touched 
by  such  soft,  shining  hands.  And  what  was  yet  a 
greater  joy  than  ever  to  see  my  unknown  father  and 
mother  on  the  other  side  of  the  throne,  I  saw  my  brother, 
my  dear,  gentle,  beautiful  little  brother,  who,  seven 


186  THE   HOURS   OP  LIFE. 

years  older  than  I,  had  loved  and  played  with  me  on  the 
earth.  He  was  clothed  in  white  garments,  and  was 
grown  from  a  child  to  a  youth,  and  was  so  full  of  a 
noble  and  beautiful  grace.  He  smiled  upon  me ;  he  did 
not  speak ';  none  spoke.  All  was  so  still,  and  serene, 
and  bright,  and  beautiful.  Next  morning  I  awoke  as  if 
yet  in  my  dream,  so  vivid  was  the  whole  scene  before 
me.  I  could  have  danced  and  sung  all  day,  "  I  have 
seen  my  father  and  mother  and  brother  in  the  heavenly 
courts."  But  what  are  dreams  ? 

Yet,  it  is  wonderful  to  go  back  to  the  dreams  and 
thoughts  of  childhood ;  they  are  so  distinct ;  such  living 
realities.  I  often  remember  a  speech  I  made  in  those 
far  childish  days.  I  was  lying  in  bed  with  a  friend, 
in  the  early  gray  morning.  All  at  once  I  started  up 
and  said — "  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  lived  in  the  days 
when  Jesus  lived  upon  the  earth  !" 

I  was  asked  why?  And  I  replied,  "Because  I  could 
have  loved  Him ;  I  would  have  followed  as  those  women 
followed  Him ;  I  would  have  kissed  the  hem  of  His  gar 
ment." 

A  laugh  checked  the  further  flow  of  my  talk ;  but  I 
lay  down  again,  and  then  my  thoughts  wandered  off  to 
the  mountains  of  Judea,  and  I  saw  a  Divine  Man  walk 
ing  over  the  hills  and  valleys,  and  women  following  Him. 
In  those  days  I  knew  two  passages  in  the  Bible,  and 
that  was  all  that  I  knew  of  it,  for  I  never  read  it.  But 
t  learned  at  Sunday  school,  Christ's  Sermon  on  the 
Mount,  and  the  first  five  verses  of  the  first  chapter  of 
John.  And  I  remember  how  confused  I  always  was 
over  the  WORD,  for  some  told  me  it  meant  "Logo*.'' 


THE   HOURS   OF   LIFE.  187 

What  was  "  Logos  ?"  I  could  never  fathom  it.  Now 
I  know  what  "Logos"  means.  And  yet  the  mystery  is 
not  fathomed.  Well,  let  that  go.  I  could  never  under 
stand  the  Bible.  However,  in  those  days  it  was  some 
thing  holy  and  sacred  to  me ;  because  the  Bible  that  I 
owned  belonged  to  my  dear  father,  and  I  often  kissed 
it,  and  loved  the  Book  dearly,  but  I  could  not  read  it  by 
myself.  But  I  did  read  occasionally  in  the  Bible,  to  an 
old  woman ;  she  lived  on  the  way  to  the  village  school, 
in  a  dilapidated,  deserted  country  store ;  she  occupied 
the  little  back  room,  in  which  was  a  fire-place,  and  I 
was  permitted  to  taka  a  flask  of  milk  to  her  every-  day, 
as  I  passed  to  school ;  and  with  what  a  glad  heart  I 
always  hurried  off  in  the  morning,  that  I  might  gather 
broken  brush-wood  and  dried  sticks,  for  her  to  kindle 
her  fire  with.  Charitable  people  sent  her  wood,  but  it 
was  wet  and  hard  to  kindle,  and  the  poor  old  woman, 
with  her  bent  back,  would  go  out  and  painfully  gather 
the  dried  sticks  that  lay  around  her  desolate  home ;  but 
when  I  came,  she  would  take  my  book  and  dinner-basket 
into  her  house,  and  leave  me  the  delight  of  gathering 
the  sticks.  Ah !  I  was  happy  then — when  I  knelt  on 
the  rude  hearth  and  blew  with  my  mouth  instead  of  a 
bellows,  the  smoking,  smouldering  wood  into  a  blaze, 
and  heard  the  loving  words  that  the  good  old  woman 
lavished  upon  me.  She  loved  me — but  not  as  much  as 
I  loved  her.  She  was  my  peculiar  treasure — something 
for  me  to  live  for,  and  think  of.  I  always  left  my  dinner 
with  her,  and  at  noon  returned  to  eat  it  with  her ;  though 
I  would  feel  almost  ashamed  to  spread  out  the  cold  meat 
and  bread  before  her,  she  looked  so  much  like  a  lady. 


188  THE   HOURS    OF  LIFE. 

But  she  always  asked  a  blessing ;  that  was  what  I  never 
did,  and  it  gave  me  an  awe-stricken  feeling,  and  my 
meal  would  have  something  of  a  solemn  and  tender 
interest — what  with  the  blessing,  and  the  old  woman's 
love  for  me,  and  mine  for  her — and  we  ate  it  in  a  solemn 
and  gloomy  room,  for  there  was  no  table  in  the  little 
back  room,  so  we  used  the  counter  of  the  old  store ;  and 
the  empty  shelves  and  the  closed  doors  and  shutters, 
with  only  the  light  from  the  back-door,  made  me  often 
look  around  shudderingly  into  the  gloom  and  obscurity 
of  dark  corners — for  I  abounded  in  superstitious  terrors, 
and  I  pitied  the  poor,  lonely  old  woman  for  living  in 
such  a  home  more  than  I  ever  pitied  the  cold  and  hunger 
she  endured. 

Often  when  our  dinner  was  over,  I  read  aloud  to  her 
in  the  Bible.  She  could  read  it  herself.  But  perhaps 
she  liked  to  hear  the  sound  of  a  childish  voice,  and  per 
haps  she  thought  that  she  was  doing  me  good.  Did  she 
do  me  good  ?  heigho  ! — at  all  events,  she  left  a  beautiful 
memory  to  gild  this  dark  twilight  that  grows  upon  my 
soul. 

But  the  loving,  trusting  childhood  is  gone,  and  why 
do  I  dwell  upon  it?  Why  does  its  sensitive  life  yet 
move  and  stir  in  my  memory  ?  Has  it  aught  to  do  with 
the  cold,  dark  present  ?  The  Present !  Alas  !  what  a 
contrast  it  is  to  that  childish  faith !  I  almost  wish  that 
I  could  now  believe  as  I  did  then.  But  no.  Reason 
has  dissipated  the  visions  and  dreams  and  superstitions 
of  childhood.  It  has  made  unreal  to  me  that  which 
was  most  real.  In  its  cold,  chilling  light,  I  have  looked 
into  the  world  of  tangible  facts  and  possible  realities. 


THE   HOURS  OF  LIFE.  189 

All !  this  cold,  cold  light,  how  much  of  beauty  and  love 
it  has  congealed !  It  has  fallen  like  a  mant)e  of  snow 
over  the  warm,  Jiving  life  of  the  earth ;  and  blooming 
flowers,  that  sent  up  odours  on  the  soft  air,  have  crumbled 
to  dust,  and  bright  summer  waters  that  reflected  the 
heavens  in  their  blue  depths,  and  glittered  in  the  light 
of  stars  and  moon  and  sun,  have  now  been  congealed 
into  solid,  dull  opaque  masses,  which  yield  not  to  the 
tread  of  man.  Alas !  no  bird  of  beauty  dips  its  wing 
in  these  dead  waters,  and  plumes  itself  for  an  aerial 
flight  of  love  and  joy.  But  the  cold  contraction  chains 
down  all  the  freer,  beautiful  life,  into  a  hopeless,  chilling 
inanity. 

MIDNIGHT. — The  gloom  has  gathered  into  a  darkness 
that  may  be  felt ;  and  seeing  nothing,  I  would  stretch 
forth  my  hands  to  feel  if  there  is  anything  within  my 
mind  to  stay  my  soul  upon.  But,  alas  !  in  a  deep  sorrow, 
how  little  do  mental  acquisitions  avail !  All  the  beauti 
ful  systems  and  theories  that  delighted  my  intelligence, 
and  filled  my  thought  in  my  noon  of  hope  and  life, 
have  sunk  into  darkness.  How  is  this  ?  Sometimes  I 
think  that  all  light  comes  through  the  heart  into  the 
mind ;  and  when  love  is  quenched,  behold,  there  is  only 
darkness;  the  beauty  and  life  and  joy  are  gone.  Ah, 
woe  is  me  !  Have  I  nothing  left  ? — no  internal  resources 
— no  wealth  of  knowledge,  with  which  to  minister  to 
this  poverty  of  hope  and  life  ?  It  cannot  be  that  all 
past  efforts,  all  struggles  and  self-sacrifices,  to  attain 
this  coveted  and  natural  knowledge,  were  useless,  vain 
mockeries.  I  thought  I  should  live  by  this  knowledge  ; 
that  when  the  outer  life  palled  upon  me,  I  could  then 


190  THE   HOUKS   OF  LIFE. 

retire  within  my  own  being  to  boundless  stores  of  riches 
and  beauty.  Well — this  time  has  come,  and  what  do  1 
find?  Truly  it  is  no  Aladdin-palace,  glittering  with 
gold  and  gems.  It  is  more  like  a  cavernous  depth, 
stored  with  rubbish,  and  from  its  dark  deeps  comes  up 
an  earthy  odour,  that  almost  suffocates  my  spirit.  But 
this  is  my  all,  and  I  must  descend  from  the  life  of  the 
heart  to  the  life  of  the  mind,  and  scan  my  unsatisfactory 
possessions. 

Well,  here  is  a  world  of  childish,  school-day  lumber. 
Once  it  was  a  great  delight  to  me  to  learn  that  the 
world  was  round,  and  not  square ;  but  I  cannot  see  that 
a  knowledge  of  that  fact  affords  me  any  great  satisfac 
tion  now,  for  it  has  shaped  itself  to  me  as  an  acute 
angle.  And  the  earth's  surface !  how  I  used  to  glow 
with  the  excitement  of  the  bare  thought  of  Rome  !  and 
Athens  !  and  Constantinople  !  and  their  thrilling  histo 
ries  and  wonders  of  art,  and  beauties  of  nature,  seemed 
to  me  an  indefinite  world  of  unattainable  delight  and 
ecstasy.  But  now,  I  have  lived  in  all  these  places,  and 
the  light  and  glory  have  gone.  They  have  fallen  within 
the  freezing  light  of  reason.  They  are  no  longer  like 
beautiful  dreams  to  me.  They  are  squared  down  into 
fixed,  unalterable  facts.  I  cannot  gild  them  with  any 
light  of  fancy ;  and  I  cannot  extract  from  them  any 
thing  like  the  delight  of  my  childhood.  So  I  will  turn 
from  these  fixed  facts  and  look  out  for  those  philoso 
phical  theories,  that  gave  me  a  later  delight,  as  more 
interior  menial  pleasure. 

Well,  when  I  first  broke  through  the  shackles  of  the 
old  childish  faith,  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  my  high- 


THE   HOURS   OF   LIFE.  191 

priest.  Through  him  I  thought  I  had  come  into  a  beau 
tiful  light  of  nature,  vague,  shadowy,  and  grand,  filling 
vast  conceptions  of  the  indefinite.  He  discarded  the 
God  of  the  Hebrews,  who  was  fashioned  after  their  own 
narrow,  revengeful  passions ;  a  Being  of  wrath  and  war. 
And  a  brooding  spirit,  an  indefinite  indwelling  life  of 
nature,  was  a  new  revelation  to  me.  I  grew  mystical 
and  sublime  and  sentimental,  in  this  new  mental  per 
ception.  But  I  wearied  of  that.  I  could  not  walk  on 
stilts  always,  and  I  descended  to  the  earth  and  read 
Voltaire,  and  laughed  and  sneered  at  all  the  old  forms 
and  superstitions  of  man.  But  this  does  not  aiford  me 
any  enjoyment  now — the  unhappy  do  not  feel  like  laugh 
ing  at  a  ribald  wit ;  but,  alas !  this  rubbish  is  stored 
here,  and  here  I  must  live  with  it.  It  blackened  and 
blurred  the  pictures  of  the  angels,  that  adorned  my 
childish  memories.  It  wiped  out  all  heavenly  visions, 
and  left  only  the  earthly  life. 

But  the  human  heart  cannot  live  without  a  God ;  and 
I  tried  hard  to  make  one,  for  myself,  through  German 
pantheism.  But  I  turn  this  rubbish  over  disconsolately, 
for  it  is  a  material  God,  and  does  not  respond  to  one 
spiritual  nature.  It  seems  rather  to  react  against  it. 
Alas !  alas !  I  sink  down  into  a  Cimmerian  darkness 
here  ;  it  seems  as  if  the  Stygian  pools  of  blackness  had 
closed  over  me,  and  a  cry  of  anguish  goes  forth  from 
my  inmost  soul,  piercing  the  dark  depths  to  learn  what 
is  spirit  ?  and  what  is  God  ?  What  manner  of  existence 
or  unity  of  Being  is  He  ?  Who  is  He  ?  Where  is  He  ? 
And  how  can  I  attain  to  a  knowledge  of  Him  ?  But 
through  the  echoing  halls  of  my  dark  mind,  there  is 


192  THE   HOURS   OF  LIFE. 

only  a  wailing  sound  of  woe,  of  misery,  of  disappoint 
ment,  of  a  yearning  anguish  of  spirit  for  a  something 
higher  and  better  than  I  have  ever  yet  conceived  of  or 
known. 

But  there  is  yet  more  of  this  mental  rubbish.  Ah !  here 
is  a  whole  chapter  of  stuff — and  I  once  thought  it  was 
so  wise.  I  called  it  the  "  progressive  chain  of  being,'1' 
and  wove  it  out  of  the  Pythagorean  philosophy.  I  said 
man's  nature  begins  from  the  lowest,  and  ascends  to  the 
highest.  Nature  gives  the  impulse  to  life ;  and  the 
flower  that  blooms  in  South  America  may  die,  and  its 
inner  spirit  may  clothe  itself  in  a  donkey  born  in 
Greece !  and  so  it  goes  on  transfusing  itself  from  clime 
to  clime,  in  ever  new  and  higher  forms,  until  man  is 
developed.  Well,  was  there  ever  such  stuff  concocted 
before?  I  almost  hear  the  bray  of  that  donkey,  who 
originated  in  a  flower.  And  pray,  most  sapient  self! 
what  is  nature  ?  It  seems  now,  to  me,  a  form,  a  mere 
dead  incubus  of  matter.  And  could  this  inert  tangible 
matter,  sublimate  in  its  hard,  dead  bosom,  an  essence  so 
subtle,  as  to  be  freer  of  the  bonds  of  time  and  space  ? 
At  such  a  preposterous  suggestion  even  a  donkey  might 
bow  his  ears  with  shame.  So  I  will  hand  this  "  pro 
gressive  chain  of  being"  over  to  a  deeper  darkness,  and 
pass  on. 

Lo !  here  lie  the  statues  of  broken  gods,  headless 
divinities.  I  tried  to  believe  in  Greek  mythology ;  to 
fancy  that  the  world  had  gone  backwards,  and  that 
there  were  spirits  of  the  earth  and  air,  that  took  part 
in  the  life  of  man.  But  these  were  poetic  visions  that 
shifted  and  waved  with  every  fleeting  fancy.  But  now 


THE   HOURS   OP   LIFE.  193 

this  would  be  a  pleasant  faith.  What  if  I  could,  appeal 
to  an  invisible,  higher  spiritual  being,  who  sympathized 
with  my  nature,  to  lead  me  out  of  this  darkness  of 
ignorance  into  a  true  world  of  light,  of  truth,  of  defi 
nite  knowledge,  concerning  life  and  its  origin ;  concern 
ing  God  and  His  nature  ?  If  I  were  only  an  old  Greek, 
how  I  would  pray  to  Minerva  for  help,  and  call  upon 
Hercules  to  remove  this  Augean  dirt,  that  pollutes  and 
lumbers  all  the  chambers  of  my  mind !  But  when  the 
old  Greeks  called,  were  they  answered  ?  Ah,  there  is 
nothing  to  hope  for  ! 

Yet  Socrates  believed  in  these  spiritual  existences ; 
he  ordered  a  cock  to  be  sacrificed  to  Esculapius  as  he 
was  drinking  the  hemlock.  To  him,  they  were  not  mere 
poetic  creations;  he  believed  to  the  last  that  he  was 
guided  and  guarded  by  his  demon.  What  if  we  all 
are?  What  if  even  now,  in  this  midnight  darkness, 
stands  a  beautiful  being,  veiled  by  my  ignorance,  who 
loves  me,  from  a  world  of  light ;  sees  the  tangled  web 
of  my  thoughts,  and  would  draw  it  out  into  form,  and 
order,  and  beauty?  If  such  there  be,  oh,  bright  and 
beautiful  one !  pity  me,  love  me,  and  enlighten  me. 
Alas,  no ! — all  is  yet  dark.  What  would  a  being  revel 
ling  in  light  and  beauty,  have  to  do  with  this  poor,  faded 
life  of  mine  ?  Alas !  that  was  a  fleeting  hope,  that,  like 
a  pale,  flickering  ray,  gilded  the  darkness  for  a  moment. 

But,  here  is  a  something  which  gives  somewhat  of  joy 
and  life  to  the  mind.  It  is  a  beautiful  thought  of  Plato, 
that  there  is  a  great  central  sun. in  the  universe,  around 
which  all  other  suns  revolve.  What  if  this  be  an  inner 
sun,  which  is  the  fountain  of  spiritual  life  ?  That  is 

13 


194  THE   HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

something  to  believe.  Yet  the  thought  sinks  appalled 
from  it.  The  heart  desires  a  God  that  it  may  love,  and 
trust  in,  that  it  may  speak  to  and  be  heard ;  and  if  the 
fountain  of  life  be  only  a  sun,  what  is  there  to  love 
in  it  ?  True,  we  rejoice  in  the  light  and  beauty  of  the 
sun  that  upholds  this  world  in  its  place  ;  but  what  is  this 
enjoyment  compared  to  the  bliss  of  human  love  ?  A 
man — a  living,  breathing,  loving  man — is  the  perfection 
of  existence ;  and  one  could  be  happy  with  a  perfect 
man,  if  all  the  suns  in  the  universe  were  blotted  out.  A 
MAN  !  what  is  he,  in  his  essential  attributes  ?  What  is 
it  that  gives  a  delight  in  him  ?  Ah  !  I  am  full  of  ideal 
visions — for  in  all  history  I  find  not  one  man  that  alto 
gether  fills  my  vision  of  what  a  man  should  be.  From 
the  Alexanders  and  Caesars  I  turn  with  loathing — their 
fierce,  rude,  outre  life,  their  selfish,  grasping  ambition, 
suggest  to  me  the  vision  of  snarling  wild  beasts,  battling 
over  the  torn  and  palpitating  limbs  of  nations.  These 
men  could  never  have  touched  my  soul;  they  could 
never  have  dispelled  the  darkness  of  my  mind ;  they 
could  not  be  friends.  But  was  there  ever  a  man  that 
could  have  answered  the  questions  for  the  solution  of 
which  my  spirit  yearns  ?  Plato  was  beautiful ;  arounc 
him  was  a  pure,  intellectual  light.  But,  after  all,  he 
knew  very  little;  his  writings  are  mostly  suggestive. 
But  suppose  there  was  a  man  who  could  reveal  all  the 
hidden  things  of  life  ?  How  sudden  would  be  the  de 
light  of  learning  of  him,  of  communing  with  his  spirit  ? 
And  what  if  he  knew,  not  only  everything  relating  to 
this  world,  and  my  own  intellectual  being,  but  could  tell 
me  of  all  the  universe,  of  all  the  after  life  ?  Oh  !  what 


THE   HOURS   OF  LIFE.  195 

a  joy  such  a  man  would  be  to  me !  How  would  this 
midnight  darkness  melt  into  the  clearest  and  most  beau 
tiful  day ! 

But  did  such  an  one  ever  exist  ?  Why  is  it  that  now 
comes  over  me  the  vision  of  my  childhood,  of  the  Divine 
Man  walking  over  the  hills  of  Judea  ?  Oh,  Christ !  who 
wert  Thou  ?  My  thought  goes  forth  to  Thee ;  beautiful 
was  Thy  life  upon  the  earth.  It  had  in  it  a  heavenly 
sanctity,  a  purity,  a  grace  and  mercy,  a  gentleness  and 
forbearance,  that  seems  to  me  God-like  and  Divine. 
Yes — what  if  God  descended  and  walked  on  the  earth  ? 
I  could  love  Him,  that  He  had  lowered  Himself  to  my 
comprehension.  But  God !  the  Infinite  and  Eternal ! 
in  the  finite  human  form,  undergoing  death !  I  cannot 
comprehend  this.  But  what  is  infinity  ?  When  I  look 
within  myself  and  realize  my  ever-changing  and  fleeting 
feelings,  now  glancing  in  expansive  ranges  of  thought 
from  star  to  star,  I  realize  an  infinity  in  mind,  that  is 
not  of  the  body.  What  if  it  were  thus  with  the  Holy 
Man,  Christ  ?  What  if  He  were  God  as  to  the  spirit, 
and  man  as  to  the  flesh  ?  If  this  were  so,  well  may  I 
have  wished  "to  live  when  Jesus  walked  the  earth,"  for 
He  alone  could  have  revealed  all  things  to  me.  How 
wonderful  must  have  been  His  wisdom !  And  if  His 
indwelling  spirit  were  God,  then  Christ  yet  lives — lives 
in  some  inner  world  of  love  and  beauty.  Ah,  beautiful 
hope  !  for,  if  immortality  is  my  portion,  I  may  yet  see 
Him,  and  learn  of  Him  in  another  existence.  Methinks 
the  night  of  my  soul  is  passing  away ;  upon  the  rayless 
darkness  a  star  has  risen ;  a  fixed  star  of  love  and 
hope ;  what  if  like  other  fixed  stars  it  prove  a  sun  ? 


196  THE   HOURS   OP  LIFE. 

Oh,  Christ !  holy  and  beautiful  Man  !  if  Thou  yet  livest 
in  far-away  realms  of  light  and  blessedness — grant  that 
I  may  see  Thee,  and  learn  of  Thy  wondrous  wisdom. 
Enlighten  my  darkness,  and  suffer  me  to  love  Thee  as 
the  Divinest  type  of  man  that  my  thought  has  yet 
imagined. 

THE  DAWN  or  THE  MORNING. — I  have  gone  back  to 
my  Bible  with  the  old  childish  love  and  reverence.  I 
read  it  with  an  object  now.  I  know  that  in  it,  the  beau 
tiful  Christ-nature  was  portrayed ;  and  I  read  with  infi 
nite  longings  to  find  Him  the  "unknown  God;"  and 
bright  revealings  come  to  me  through  this  Book.  I  feel 
that  it  is  Divine,  and  the  light  grows  upon  me;  and 
sometimes  like  the  Apostles,  who  awakened  in  the  night, 
and  saw  Christ  transfigured  before  them,  I  also  -saw  a 
transfiguration.  I  lose  sight  of  the  mere  material  man, 
and  I  perceive  an  inner  glory  of  being,  a  radiance  of 
wisdom,  and  purity,  and  love,  that  clothe  Him  in  a 
Divine  light,  and  make  His  countenance  brilliant  with 
a  spiritual  glory. 

This  transfiguration,  what  was  it  ?  My  thought  dwells 
upon  it  so — it  was  a  wonderful  thing.  I  know  that  the 
scoffing  philosophers  ridicule  the  idea  of  there  being  any 
reality  in  it ;  they  regard  it  either  as  a  fiction  on  the 
part  of  the  writers,  or  as  a  dream  or  a  delusion  of  the 
senses.  But  I  believe  that  it  all  happened  just  as  it 
was  narrated.  For  it  is  beautiful  to  believe  it.  If  it  did 
not  happen,  I  am  none  the  worse  for  believing  it,  even 
if  the  whole  life  was  a  fiction,  which  all  history  proves 
to  have  been  true ;  and  had  no  Christ  lived  upon  the 
earth,  yet,  as  a  work  of  art,  this  fiction  would  have  been 


THE    HOURS   OF   LIFE.  197 

the  highest  and  most  beautiful  dream  of  the  human 
thought.  But  if  it  is  all  literally  true ;  if  Christ  was 
"  God  manifest  in  the  flesh,"  how  much  do  I  gain  by 
believing  in  him  !  I  have  attained  the  highest  and  best 
of  all  knowledge — I  know  GOD  ! 

And  this  transfiguration  becomes  a  wonderful  revela 
tion  !  It  was  the  Spirit  of  God  shining  through  the 
Man.  And  this  spirit  was  a  substance  and  a  form. 
And  what  was  its  form  ? — that  of  a  man,  with  a  face 
radiant  as  the  sun.  Now  know  I  how  to  think  of  God. 
He  is  no  longer  a  vague,  incomprehensible  existence ; 
an  ether  floating  in  space.  But  He  is  a  living,  breath 
ing  human  form,  a  Man !  in  whose  image  and  likeness 
we  were  created.  Oh,  how  I  thank  God  that  He  has 
revealed  this  to  me!  Now,  I  know  what  manner  of 
Being  I  pray  to ;  and  like  as  the  apostles  saw  Him,  in 
His  Divine  spiritual  human  form,  will  I  now  always 
think  of  Him.  I  will  look  through  His  veil  of  flesh,  I 
will  love  Him  as  the  only  God-man  that  ever  existed. 

When  I  think  thus  of  the  inner  Divine  nature,  clothed 
I  in  a  material  body,  how  wonderfully  do  the  scenes  of 
this  drama  of  the  life  of  Christ  strike  me !  Imagine 
Him,  the  God  of  the  universe,  standing  before  the 
Jewish  sanhedrim,  condemned,  buffeted,  and  spit  upon. 
How  at  that  moment  in  His  inmost  Divine  soul,  He 
must  have  glanced  over  the  vast  creation,  that  He  had 
called  into  being ;  and  felt  that  an  Infinite  power  dwelt 
in  Him.  One  blazing  look  of  wrathful  indignation 
would  have  annihilated  that  rude  rabble.  But  He  had 
clothed  himself  in  flesh,  to  subdue  all  of  its  evil  and 
vile  passions ;  to  show  to  an  ignorant  and  sensual  race, 


198  THE  HOURS   OF   LIFE. 

the  grace  and  beauty  of  a  self-abnegation — a  Divine 
pity  and  forgiveness.  And  thus  did  the  outer  material 
Man  die  with  that  beautiful  and  touching  appeal  to  the 
Infinite-loving  soul,  from  which  the  body  was  born : 
"Father!  forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they  do." 
Oh,  Thou !  Divine  Jesus !  make  me  like  unto  Thee  in 
this  heavenly  and  loving  spirit. 

How  clear  many  things  grow  to  me  now !  I  smile 
when  I  think  of  the  old  childish  trouble  over  the  word 
"Logos,"  for  this  Logos,  i.  e.  truth,  has  been  revealed 
to  me.  In  the  knowledge  that  Christ  was  the  Infinite 
God — the  Creator  of  the  universe,  I  see  Him  as  the 
central  truth.  Thus  Christ  was  the  Logos, — the  Word  ;  f 
the  Divine  Truth,  and  now  I  read,  that  "  In  the  begin 
ning  was  Christ,  and  Christ  was  with  God,  and  Christ . 
was  God."  And  I  am  happy  in  this  knowledge — my 
thought  has  something  to  rest  upon  out  of  myself;  and 
my  affections  grow  up  from  the  earth  to  that  wonderful 
Divine  Man,  who,  after  the  death  of  the  body,  was  seen 
as  a  man,  a  living  man !  Immortality  is  no  longer  the 
dream  of  a  Plato.  It  is  a  demonstrated  fact. 

In  my  mind  is  the  stirring  of  a  new  life,  as  in  the  light 
of  an  early  morning-glory ;  the  voice  of  singing  birds  is 
in  my  heart,  and  an  odour  of  blooming  flowers  expands 
itself  in  the  delight  of  my  new  day.  I  see  the  morning 
sun  in  a  fixed  form,  yet  flooding  worlds  with  the  radia 
tions  of  its  light  and  heat,  and  shining  in  its  glory  on 
the  dew-bespangled  blade  of  grass.  Oh  Christ ! — thou 
art  my  Sun — and  I,  the  tiny  blade  of  grass,  rejoice  in 
Thy  Divine  wisdom  and  love.  Look  down  upon  me,  oh,  . 
Thou  holy  One !  from  the  "  throne  of  Thy  glory,  and 


THE   HOURS   OP  LIFE.  199 

the  habitation  of  Thy  Holiness,"  and  exhale  from  me, 
through  the  dew  of  my  sorrow,  the  incense  of  my  love. 
Draw  me  up  from  the  earth,  even  as  the  sun  draws 
up  the  bowed  plants,  and  let  me  drink  in  the  beautiful 
life  of  free  heavenly  airs. 

NOON-DAY. — How  the  light  grows !  In  the  warm 
love  of  my  soul  a  summer's  day  glows — so  serene  and 
bright,  so  full  of  ceaseless  activities,  that  the  fruits  ripen 
in  a  smiling,  rosy  beauty. 

The  living  Christ  hath  heard  my  soul's  prayer ;  and 
books,  which  I  never  before  heard  of,  have  revealed  to 
me  all  those  wonderful  truths  after  which  my  spirit 
yearned. 

First  of  all,  the  mystery  of  the  Bible  has  been  made 
clear  to  me.  I  see  it  now  as  a  beautiful  whole.  The 
Infinite  knew  from  the  beginning  that  He  was  going  to 
descend  upon  the  earth,  and  take  upon  Himself  a  human 
nature,  weak  and  ignorant  and  vicious ;  and  that  He  was 
to  purify  and  enlighten,  and  make  Divine  this  fallen 
nature,  that  man  might  know  God  in  a  material  form, 
and  love  Him.  All  this  is  written  out  in  the  Bible. 

I  stand  on  the  threshold  of  a  wonderful  science. 
There  are  innumerable  things  that  I  do  not  comprehend 
in  the  Bible ;  but  what  I  see  and  understand  awakens 
in  me  a  thrilling  delight,  and  I  can  never  exhaust  this 
book;  for  it  is  full  of  the  nerves  of  life;  and  I  can  no 
more  number  them  than  I  can  count  the  sensitive  fibres 
that  spread  themselves  from  my  brain,  to  the  innu 
merable  cellular  tissues  of  my  skin.  But  as  the  body  is 
full  of  a  sentient  life,  so  is  every  word  of  the  Bible  full 
of  an  indwelling  life. 


200  THB    HOURS   OF   LIFE. 

And  now  do  I  recognise  the  good  that  my  patient, 
Buffering  old  friend  did  me  in  my  childhood ;  would  that 
I  had  read  the  Holy  Bible  to  her  many  other  days. 
Doubtless  she  is  now  a  beautiful  angel  in  Heaven. 

The  angels !  and  Heaven !  now  too  do  I  understand 
the  inner  existence ;  and  the  dreams  and  visions  of  my 
childhood  were,  after  all,  blessed  realities ;  and  the  dead 
father  and  the  dead  mother,  after  whom  my  childish 
heart  yearned  so  lovingly,  were  revealed  to  me  as  a 
living  father  and  a  living  mother,  in  a  wondrously 
beautiful  life.  Thus  was  a  warm  inner  love  kept  alive 
in  my  soul;  and  now  I  know  that  death  is  but  a  new 
birth.  As  a  glove  is  drawn  from  the  hand,  so  is  the 
body  drawn  from  the  spirit;  and,  I  too,  will  thus  be 
born  again.  Life  -  is  again  crowned  with  a  beautiful 
hope. 

Life ! — and  this  mystery  too  is  solved.  God  is  the 
alone  life,  and  finite  human  spirits  are  forms  receptive 
of  life  from  God.  God  is  the  soul,  and  creation  is  His 
body — and  from  this  infinite  Divine  soul,  life  flows  forth 
into  every  atom  of  the  body.  Beautiful  thought !  The 
Lord  sits  throned  in  the  inmost,  and  is  cognisant  of 
every  nerve  that  thrills  through  His  boundless  universe 
of  being.  Every  thought  and  feeling  that  passes  through 
my  heart  and  mind  is  as  clearly  perceived  by  Him,  as 
are  the  sensations  of  my  body  perceived  by  my  soul. 
Thus  are  we  in  God,  and  God  in  us. 

And  how  vast  is  the  thought  that  suns,  and  their 
peopled  worlds,  are  to  the  body  of  God  but  as  the  drops 
of  blood  to  the  finite  human  body ;  and  who  can  count 
these  drops?  for  as  they  flow  forth,  and  back  to  the 


THE   HOURS   OF   LIFE.  201 

heart,  they  ever  grow  and  change,  and  increase — and 
who  can  measure  the  Infinite !  and  this  Being,  sentient 
of  all  things  in  the  universe,  providing  for  all  things ; 
seeing  all  things ;  maintaining  order,  down  to  the  mi 
nutest  particle,  in  a  system  which  the  finite  thought  of 
man  can  never  grasp — and  loving  his  creatures  in 
myriads  of  worlds,  of  which  man  never  dreamed.  How 
inconceivable  must  be  His  boundless  wisdom,  His  infinite 
love  !  Can  we  wonder  that  a  Soul  so  glowing  with  love, 
so  radiant  in  intelligence,  should  shine  as  the  sun? 
Yes — this  is  the  Central  Sun,  whose  spiritual  beams, 
pouring  forth  their  Divine  influences,  creating  as  they 
go  angelic  and  spiritual  intelligences,  finally  ultimate 
themselves  in  material  suns,  and  material  human  bodies. 
Thus  the  garment  of  dull,  opaque  .matter  is  woven  by 
the  Divine  Soul,  through  the  condensations  of  His 
emanations.  Thus,  were  "  all  things  made  by  Him ; 
and  without  Him  was  not  anything  made  that  was 
made;"  and  "in  Him  was  life,  and  the  life  was  the 
light  of  men." 

The  thought  sinks  after  this  far  flight — we  worship 
and  adore  the  Infinite.  But  the  Lord  must  for  ever 
remain  apart  from  our  weak  natures,  as  far  as  the  sun 
is  above  the  earth.  He  lives,  in  His  incomprehensible 
self-existence,  at  an  immeasurable  distance  from  us. 
This  the  Divine  Man  sees,  and  in  His  tender  compassion 
and  loving  mercy  for  every  human  soul  He  creates,  a 
twin-soul  is  made,  that  the  finite  may  find  the  fullness 
of  delight  in  another  finite  existence. 

Oh,  blessed  and  beautiful  providence  of  God!  that 
two  human  hearts  and  minds  may  intertwine  in  mutual 


202  MINISTERING  ANGELS. 

support,  and  look  up  to  the  Infinite.  And  in  the 
glorious  sunshine  of  life,  grow  ever  young  and  beautiful, 
in  an  immortal  youth. 

Oh,  ye  suffering,  sorrowing  children  of  earth !  turn 
your  affections  and  hopes  from  the  fleeting  things  of 
time;  from  the  outside-world,  to  the  beautiful  inner 
spirit-life,  where  eternity  develops  ever  new  and  vary 
ing  joys.  Then  only  can  the  day  dawn  upon  the  human 
soul,  and  the  midnight  darkness  be  dissipated  by  bound 
less  effulgence  of  light. 


MINISTERING  ANGELS. 

TIME  and  Patience  !    These  are  Angels 
By  our  Heavenly  Father  sent ; 

Whispering  to  our  restless  spirits, 
"  Cease  to  murmur— be  content ; 

God,  who  is  thy  truest  friend, 

Doth  our  aid  in  trials  send. 

When  thy  weary  spirit  faileth, 
'Neath  the  weary  cross  it  bears, 

God  is  not  unmindful  of  thee — 
He  is  listening  to  thy  prayers ; 

From  His  children's  tearful  pleading 

He  will  never  turn  unheeding  I" 

Heart  of  mine !    Trust  thou  these  Angels; 

Lean  on  Patience,  and  be  calm ; 
Trust  in  Time,  who  is  preparing 

For  thy  grief  a  spirit-balm  ; 
God  is  merciful,  and  He 
Gave  them  charge  concerning  thee. 


OURS,  LOVED,  AND  "GONE  BEFORE." 

The  light  of  her  young  life  went  out, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star ; 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. — WHITTIER. 

You  ask  me  to  tell  you  of  her,  the  sweet  friend  we 
have  loved  and  lost.  You  impose  on  me  a  difficult  task ; 
I  find  it  so  harrowing  to  my  feelings,  and  I  also  find 
that  my  pen  is  inadequate  to  the  tribute  my  heart  would 
pay. 

I  would  that  the  privilege  of  knowing  and  loving  her 
had  been  yours,  for  to  know  her  was  to  love  her. 

In  former  letters  I  told  you  something  of  her ;  how 
she  came  to  us  a  lovely  bride  of  just  nineteen  summers ; 
how  anxiously  we  looked  for  her  first  appearance  in 
church,  for  they  arrived  late  Saturday  evening,  and  no 
one  had  seen  her.  I  told  you  how  my  heart  went  out 
to  her  as  I  looked  on  her  sweet,  bright,  yet  somewhat 
timid  face ;  there  was  a  perfect  witchery  in  her  eyes. 
I  felt  that  I  could  gaze  into  them  for  ever ;  there  was 
about  them  a  spell,  a  fascination  that  I  have  never  seen 
in  others ;  they  laughed  as  they  looked  at  you,  and  yet 
they  were  not  merely  laughing  eyes ;  perhaps  the  long, 
drooping  lashes  somewhat  modified  the  expression,  and 
helped  to  give  the  peculiarity  so  strikingly  their  own. 

Her  dress  and  whole  appearance  were  captivating ; 
the  simple  light  straw  hat,  with  the  little  illusion  veil, 
and  the  pure  white  dress  fitting  so  prettily  the  slender 


204       OURS,  LOVED,  AND  "  GONE  BEFORE." 

form.  I  could  hardly  wait  for  the  next  day,  so  anxious 
was  I  to  see  and  speak  with  her,  for  I  loved  her  already. 

I  had  been  prepared  to  love  her,  for  our  young  pastor 
had  told  us  much  of  his  future  bride.  You  know  our 
house  was  one  of  his  homes,  and  to  us  he  had  spoken 
often  and  enthusiastically  of  his  Mary.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  first  Sabbath,  that  his  prayers  were  particularly 
impressive,  and  his  thanks  to  the  Author  and  Giver  of 
every  perfect  gift  unusually  appropriate;  he  seemed 
overpowered  by  a  weight  of  gratitude  and  love. 

How  I  admired  the  two  as  I  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other !  And  I  know  that  many  prayers  went  up  from 
that  assembled  congregation  for  long  life  and  blessings 
on  them. 

It  was  a  beautiful  home  that  had  been  prepared  for 
her.  Her  furniture  had  been  sent  on  previous  to  their 
marriage,  and  our  little  band  had  vied  with  each  other 
in  arranging  with  a  view  both  to  taste  and  comfort. 
How  we  did  wish  for  a  peep  into  her  own  home,  to  get 
a  hint  with  regard  to  arranging  her  things,  so  as  to  be 
home-like  ! 

You  know  there  is  often  so  much  in  association,  and 
we  would  have  loved  the  new  strange  place  to  have  a 
familiar  look  to  her  at  first  sight.  Oh  !  what  visions  we 
conjured  up  as  we  arranged  the  room  which  was  to  serve 
both  as  parlour  and  dining-room;  for  the  house  was 
small,  and  Mr.  B.'s  study  must  be  on  the  first  floor. 
There  was  the  best  place  for  the  piano  between  the  win 
dows,  which  looked  into  the  garden ;  we  heard  in  anti 
cipation  the  sweet  voice  which  was  to  fill  the  little  room 
with  melody,  as  the  roses  and  flowers  of  June  now  filled 


OtJiiS,   LOVED,  AND   "  GONE  BEFORE.  205 

the  garden  with  fragrance.  The  "pretty  fire-screen  must 
stand  in  a  conspicuous  corner,  for  that  spoke  particu 
larly  of  home,  and  of  the  hours  delightfully  passed  in 
the  dear  family  circle  while  tracing  it  stitch  by  stitch ; 
and  I  fancied  that  into  each  bright  flower  which  stood 
out  so  life-like  from  the  canvas  some  emotion  of  her 
heart  had  been  indelibly  wrought.  How  many  lovely 
home  associations  will  the  pretty  fire-screen  bring  up ! 

How  we  arranged,  and  disarranged,  and  re-arranged, 
before  all  was  to  our  minds ;  and  how  we  hoped,  when 
all  was  finished,  that  it  would  look  as  charming  to  her 
as  it  did  to  us  !  And  we  were  not  disappointed ;  for,  on 
the  following  Monday,  when  we  called  to  see  her,  no 
thing  could  exceed  the  enthusiasm  of  her  expression  and 
gratitude ;  everything  was  lovely,  perfect ;  she  saw  all 
en  couleur  de  rose. 

She  had  left  indulgent  parents,  and  a  home  of  refine 
ment  and  luxury,  and  we  feared  for  her  the  untried 
duties  of  her  new  position;  but  an  intimate  acquain 
tance  proved  her  eminently  qualified  for  the  responsi 
bility  she  had  assumed.  She  adapted  herself  with 
charming  grace  and  readiness  to  her  present  circum 
stances.  She  was  a  most  delightful  acquisition  to  our 
limited  circle ;  a  favourite  with  all ;  and  she  blended  so 
beautifully  the  graces  of  religion  with  those  of  her  na 
tural  temperament  that  she  became  our  idol. 

The  "parsonage"  seemed  to  me  a  paradise,  surround 
ed  by  none  but  bright  and  holy  influences.  There  the 
poor  always  found'  a  welcome,  a  willing  heart,  a  ready 
hand,  and  listening  ear ;  however  sad  and  desponding 
on  entering,  they  invariably  came  out  cheerful  and  hope- 


206       OURS,  LOVED,  AND  "GONE  BEFORE." 

ful.  There  seemed  a  magic  spell  cast  around  every  one 
who  sought  the  presence  of  our  dearly  loved  pastor  and 
his  wife. 

With  what  pleasure  I  used  to  watch  for  their  steps  as 
they  took  their  morning  walks  together  that  bright  first 
year  of  their  married  life !  They  seemed  to  have  the 
life  and  vivacity  of  children.  She  always  accompanied 
him  in  his  walks,  in  his  visits  to  the  poor,  in  relief  to 
the  sick,  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying ;  she  was  like  his 
shadow,  and  always  haunted  him  for  good.  It  might  be 
said  most  emphatically  of  both,  "  When  the  ear  heard 
them  it  blessed  them,  and  when  the  eye  saw  them  it  gave 
witness  to  them,  because  they  delivered  the  poor  that 
cried,  and  the  fatherless,  and  him  that  had  none  to  help 
him ;  the  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish  came 
upon  them,  and  they  caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing 
for  joy."  ' 

Thus  several  years  passed  away ;  new  cares  and  new 
duties  devolved  on  them ;  but  all  were  cheerfully  met 
and  delightfully  performed;  and  they  basked  in  the 
sunshine  of  God's  love.  Beautiful  children  sprang  up 
around  them,  and  we  felt  that  "  earth  never  owned  a 
happier  nest"  than  that  which  was  placed  in  our  midst. 

How  proud  Mr.  B.  was  of  his  family,  and  with  what 
reason,  too,  for  we  all  felt  it  with  him ;  his  wife  so  beau 
tiful,  so  good,  so  in  all  respects  fitted  to  make  home 
happy,  with  her  never-failing  sunshine  and  light-heart- 
edness ;  his  two  little  girls,  our  impersonation  of  cherubs ; 
and  the  youngest  a  noble  boy,  so  dear  to  his  mother's 
heart.  Oh !  how  many  attractions  within  that  charmed 
circle  ! 


OURS,   LOVED,   AND   "GONE  BEFORE."  207 

I  shall  never  forget  an  evening  I  passed  in  the  nursery 
with  that  dear  one  surrounded  by  her  happy  little  band. 
Willie,  "the  baby,"  as  she  called  him,  although  more 
than  two  years  old,  was  sitting  in  her  lap,  twirling  one 
of  her  long,  beautiful  ringlets  round  his  tiny  fingers. 

"  Sing,  mamma !"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  do  !"  joined  in  Effie  and  Minnie,  putting  their 
bright  innocent  faces  and  soft  brown  curls  close  to  hers ; 
"  sing  The  Dove,  mamma,  please." 

She  laughingly  asked  me  to  excuse  her,  saying,  she 
always  devoted  the  twilight  hour  to  amusing  and  in 
structing  the  little  ones.  I  begged  her  to  allow  my  pre 
sence  to  be  no  restraint  upon  her  usual  custom.  She 
then  commenced,  and  I  thought  no  seraph's  voice  could 
be  sweeter,  as  she  sang  one  of  Mary  Howitt's  beautiful 

translations : — 

• 
"  There  sitteth  a  dove  so  white  and  fair 

All  on  the  lily  spray, 
And  she  listeneth  how  to  Jesus  Christ 

The  little  children  pray ; 
Lightly  she  spreads  her  friendly  wings, 

And  to  Heaven's  gate  hath  fled, 
And  to  the  Father  in  Heaven  she  bears 
The  prayers  which  the  children  have  said. 

And  back  she  comes  from  Heaven's  gate, 
And  brings,  that  dove  so  mild, 

From  the  Father  in  Heaven,  who  hears  her  speak, 
A  blessing  for  every  child. 

The  children  lift  up  a  pious  prayer- 
It  hears  whatever  you  say, 

That  heavenly  dove,  so  white  and  fair, 
All  on  the  lily  spray." 


208  OI}RS,   LOVED,   Alfp   "GONE  BEFORE." 


I  joined  heartily  in  th^.  thanks  and  admiration  the 
children  expressed  when  sJjBefhad  finished. 

As  she  laid  them  in  tl^it,  little  beds,  and  kissed  their 
rosy  lips  and  dimpled  cheeks,  she  said,  "  I  can  never 
thank  God  enough  for  these  sweet  children."  She  then 
added,  "  Oh  !  what  an  affliction  it  must  be  to  lose  a 
child  ;  I  think  if  one  of  mine  should  die,  I  should  die, 
too;  but,"  she  added,  "I  should  not  say  so;  could  I 
not  trust  them  with  Him  who  doeth  all  things  well?" 
She  little  realized  how  soon  she  was  to  be  put  to  the 
test.  I  called  there  a  few  days  after.  She  was  in  the 
garden  raising  and  tying  up  some  drooping  carnations 
which  the  rain  of  the  preceding  day  had  injured. 

"Willie  is  not  well,"  said  she.  "I  have  just  sung 
him  to  sleep,  and  Mr.  B.  said  I  must  take  a  little  fresh 
air,  for  I  was  fatigued  with  holding  him,  and  I  thought 
I  would  confine  myself  to  the  garden,  to  be  near,  if  he 
should  wake." 

Soon  a  cry  from  the  nursery  was  heard  ;  she  sprang 
up  the  steps  in  nervous  haste,  while  I  quite  chided  her 
anxiety.  I  followed  her  into  the  room,  and  was  sur 
prised  and  shocked  to  find  the  dear  boy  in  a  high  fever  ; 
his  little  arms  tossing  restlessly,  and  his  lips  dry  and 
parched.  Mr.  B.  sent  immediately  for  the  physician; 
we  waited  anxiously  his  arrival,  hoping  secretly  that  we 
were  unnecessarily  alarmed;  but  his  coming  did  not 
reassure  us  ;  he  saw  dangerous  symptoms  ;  but  still,  he 
said,  he  hoped  for  the  best.  I  went  home,  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  B.  both  declined  my  services  for  the  night,  saying 
they  would  rather  attend  him  alone.  The  next  day  I 
was  pained  to  hear  that  his  symptoms  were  more  unfa- 


,  LOVED,  AND  "  GONE  BEFORE/        209 

vourable ;  that  the  medicine  had  had  no  effect,  and  the 
physician  was  becoming  discouraged.  I  flew  over  to  the 
"parsonage;"  the  wildly  anxious  look  of  the  mother 
distressed  me.  I  begged  her  to  lie  down  a  little  while, 
and  allow  me  to  take  her  place  by  the  baby. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "I  cannot  leave  him;  who  but 
his  mother  should  be  by  his  side  ?" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  never  seen  greater  distress 
on  any  countenance.  Mr.  B.  endeavoured  to  soothe  her, 
though  his  anguish  was  apparently  as  keen  as  her  own. 

"  If  our  Saviour  would  remove  this  little  flower  to  his 
own  garden,  shall  we  refuse  to  give  it  up  ?  Shall  we  not 
rather  bless  and  thank  him  for  allowing  us  to  keep  it  so 
long?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said,  "He  doeth  all  things  well;  I 
know  that  he  does  not  willingly  afflict  nor  grieve  the 
children  of  men.  I  know  that  whom  He  loveth  he 
chasteneth,  and  I  can  say,  '  Thy  will  be  done/  Nature 
is  powerful,  but  my  Saviour  feels  for  me,  and  will  for 
give  the  inward  struggle." 

All  that  night  they  watched  his  little  life  fast  ebbing 
away.  Towards  morning  his  sufferings  seemed  to  cease ; 
he  smiled  upon  his  parents.  Hope  for  a  moment  revived 
in  their  hearts,  but  soon  to  be  displaced  by  bitter  an 
guish.  Daylight  showed  the  marked  change  in  his  fea 
tures  and  complexion  that  told  too  plainly  the  messenger 
•  was  very  near. 

"Speak  to  me,  Willie,"  she  exclaimed,  bending  over 
him  in  an  agony  of  grief. 

"Mamma,"  he  said,  and,  with  the  effort,  his  little 
spirit  took  its  flight. 
14 


210  OURS,    LOVED,    AND   "GONE  BEFORE." 

Much  has  been  said  and  written  upon  the  death  of 
infants,  but  when  we  see  so  much  of  wickedness  in  the 
world,  so  much  of  sin  to  blight,  so  much  sorrow  to  fade, 
can  we  wonder  that  the  Lord  of  Paradise  loves  to  trans 
plant  to  a  fairer  clime  these  frail  buds  of  earth,  there 
to  have  a  beautiful  and  unfading  development ! 

We  saw  no  more  of  our  precious  friends  till  the  day 
of  the  funeral.  This  was  their  first  affliction,  and  none 
liked  to  intrude  on  the  sanctity  of  their  grief,  though 
many  tears  were  shed,  and  hearts  went  out  to  them; 
but  we  felt  that  they  knew  whom  they  had  trusted,  and 
that  under  the  shadow  of  His  wings  they  could  rest 
securely  till  the  storm  was  past. 

A  neighbouring  clergyman  was  to  perform  the  last 
sad  office  for  the  dead.  Most  lovely  did  little  Willie 
look  in  his  coffin.*  The  child-like,  beautiful  expression 
still  lingered.  Rare  flowers,  the  smallest  and  whitest, 
had  been  placed  in  the  tiny  hand,  and  shed  their  fra 
grance  throughout  the  room. 

Oh !  how  sad  and  sick  appeared  the  mother,  as  she 
bent  to  take  the  last  look  at  the  little  form  she  had 
loved  and  cherished  so  tenderly !  Her  nights  of  anxiety 
and  watching  had  left  their  traces  upon  her  face ;  her 
usually  light  and  elastic  step  was  feeble  and  slow,  and 
she  rested  heavily  upon  the  arm  of  her  husband.  His 
form  also  was  bowed,  and  his  countenance  bore  traces 
of  the  deepest  grief. 

One  of  those  sudden  changes  which  we  so  often  expe 
rience  in  this  our  most  changeful  climate,  took  place 
that  day.  At  noon  it  was  very  warm  and  bright,  but 


OURS,    LOVED,   AND    "GONE   BEFORE."  211 

before  we  returned  from  the  funeral  it  was  cloudy  and 
cold. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  B.  was  quite  sick  with  severe  cold, 
and  the  effects  of  the  past  excitement  and  grief.  We 
flattered  ourselves  that  rest  and  quiet,  with  good  nurs 
ing,  would  soon  restore  her ;  and  you  may  judge  of  our 
dismay  upon  learning,  the  day  after,  that  she  was  dan 
gerously  ill. 

"  Oh,  no,"  we  thought  and  said  a  hundred  times,  "it 
cannot  be  so ;  she  will  surely  be  better  to-morrow." 

We  could  not  have  it  otherwise.  We  could  not  for 
an  instant  admit  the  idea  that  she  would  not  recover. 
The  bare  supposition  was  agony.  Oh !  how  harrowing 
to  me  is  the  remembrance  of  those  long  summer  days, 
and  those  wakeful  moonlight  nights,  in  which,  prostrated 
by  disease,  lay  that  young  and  lovely  being  so  idolized 
by  us  all,  but  whom,  indeed,  we  were  destined  to  see  no 
more  on  earth. 

The  Divine  fiat  had  gone  forth,  and  hearts  were  ago 
nized,  and  looks  grew  sadder  and  sadder,  as  day  after 
day  sounded  like  a  knell  in  our  ears  the  fearful  words, 
"Not  materially  better."  But  we  could  not  give  her 
up ;  hope  would  linger.  No  one  was  permitted  to  see 
her  but  the  family  and  nurses,  for  the  doctor  said  all 
excitement  must  be  carefully  avoided.  We  said,  "  She 
will  not  die ;  God  will  raise  her  up."  In  our  weakness 
and  blindness,  we  could  see  no  mercy  nor  wisdom  in  this 
terrible  bereavement,  this  scorching  desolation  of  the 
already  heavily-stricken  servant  of  the  Most  High.  He 
was  naturally  of  a  most  hopeful  disposition,  and  this, 
notwithstanding  the  discouraging  words  of  the  physician, 


212  OURS,    LOVED,   AND   "GONE   BEFORE." 

, 

buoyed  up  his  soul,  and  he  with  us  hoped  against  hope. 
They  could  not  persuade  him  to  leave  her  for  a  moment. 
Whole  nights  he  watched  by  the  side  of  her  he  loved 
best  on  earth,  anticipating  every  word  and  look,  and 
administering  to  her  comfort. 

How  you  would  have  felt  for  us,  dear  Anna,  had  you 
been  here !  We  would  walk  by  the  house,  and  look 
up  at  the  windows  or  door,  not  daring  to  knock  for  fear 
of  disturbing  her,  but  hoping  to  see  one  of  the  physi 
cians  or  some  one  of  the  family,  of  whom  to  make  in 
quiries.  Oh,  the  nervousness  of  those  days  !  the  restless, 
weary  nights  we  passed,  till  our  fears  and  apprehensions 
became  a  racking  torment,  and  we  felt  almost  that  we 
must  die  ourselves  ourselves  or  be  out  of  suspense ;  but 
when,  on  the  evening  of  the  tenth  day  after  her  illness, 
a  messenger  came  with  pallid  face  and  almost  wild  look 
to  say  that  she  was  dead,  we  were  stunned.  I  really 
think  we  were  almost  as  much  shocked  as  though  we  had 
not  heard  of  her  illness ;  for  we  felt  that,  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  some  favourable  turn  must  take  place.  I  think  we 
expected  a  miracle  to  be  performed,  so  certain  were  we, 
or  wished  and  tried  to  be,  that  she  would  recover. 

But  God's  ways  are  not  as  our  ways;  truly,  they 
are  past  finding  out.  We  felt  like  putting  our  hands 
on  our  mouths,  for  fear  of  rebelling  against  His  most 
righteous  decrees.  "  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am 
God,"  was  all  that  we  could  say.  It  was  hard  to  realize 
that  the  sun  was  still  shining  behind  the  cloud,  for  this 
was  a  darkness  that  might  be  felt.  •  There  seemed  a  pall 
over  the  earth  and  sky.  Oh,  how  unsatisfactory  seemed 
all  on  earth !  how  dark  and  strange !  how  mysterious 


OURS,   LOVED,    AND    "GONE  BEFORE."  213 

and  unreal !  We  could  not  weep,  we  were  stunned,  and 
it  seemed  at  the  time  that  we  could  never  come  back  to 
earth  without  her.  But  when  the  touching  relation  of 
her  last  hours  was  made  to  us,  the  fountains  of  grief 
were  unsealed,  and  we  wept,  as  it  were,  rivers  of  tears. 

I  can  give  you  no  idea  on  paper  of  the  beauty  and 
sublimity  of  that  death-scene  as  it  was  painted  to  me. 
We  imagined  that  the  heart  must  shrink,  or  at  least 
draw  back  before  the  entrance  into  the  dark  valley.  But 
all  was  peace ;  it  flowed  in  upon  her  like  a  river,  and 
she  felt  that  underneath  were  the  everlasting  arms.  Her 
husband  and  two  remaining  children  stood  by  the  bed. 
Oh,  the  bitterness  of  the  cup  he  was  called  upon  to 
drink  !  He  shrank  from  it.  As  he  bent  over  her,  she 
said, 

"  Do  not  weep,  love.  How  good  God  has  been  to  give 
us  so  many  bright,  happy  years  together  !  Surely,  the 
lines  have  fallen  to  us  in  pleasant  places,  and  I" — raising 
her  beautiful  eyes  to  heaven — "  have  a,  goodly  heritage. 
I  go  to  my  Saviour.  How  should  I  feel  at  this  moment 
had  I  not  a  hope  in  him  ?  Oh,  I  am  going  home  !  I 
see  Willie  beckoning  me  to  hasten.  -I  will  bear  him  in 
my  arms  to  the  Saviour's  feet,  and  together  we  shall 
ising  the  *  new  song.'  I  do  not  love  you  nor  these  sweet 
[darlings  less ;  but  I  love  the  Saviour  more.  I  wish  you 
jcould  look  in  my  heart  and  see  the  love  I  bear  you. 
Thank  you  for  all  your  indulgence,  for  all  your  kindness 
in  bearing  with  my  many  infirmities.  If  I  am  permitted, 
E  will  be  ever  your  guardian  angel.  Remember  me  with 
much  and  undying  love  to  all  the  dear  friends  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  me." 


214       OURS,  LOVED,  AND  "GONE  BEFORE." 

She  appeared  buoyed  up  with  unnatural  strength, 
though  her  end  was  so  near.  She  broke  into  a  sweet 
hymn ;  and  it  was,  they  said,  as  though  the  angel's  voice 
had  anticipated  the  few  short  moments  before  she  should 
sing  the  "new  song."  She  lay  quiet  for  a  little  time, 
holding  the  hand  of  her  husband  in  her  own;  then, 
opening  her  eyes  and  seeing  the  last  rays  of  the  depart 
ing  sun,  "I  shall  never  look  upon  that  bright  orb  again; 
but  there  is  no  need  of  the  sun  there.  I  draw  near  to 
heavenly  habitations,  and  I  would  not  retreat  for  what 
the  world  can  give.  Dearest,  be  faithful  to  your  trust." 
And,  imprinting  a  kiss  upon  his  lips,  her  pure  spirit  went 
peacefully  home. 

We  draw  a  veil  upon  the  feelings  of  that  bereaved 
one  ;  too  sacred  are  they  to  be  looked  upon  ;  his  house 
was  left  unto  him  desolate.  That  form,  which  had  been 
to  his  eye  like  the  well  in  the  desert  or  the  bow  in  the 
sky,  was  now  cold  in  death. 

Oh  !  thought  we,  why  needed  this  affliction  to  be  sent 
upon  one  so  near  perfection  ?  Surely,  he,  of  all  others, 
needed  not  this  discipline ;  and  then  came  to  our  minds, 
soft,  sweet,  and  soothing,  the  words,  "  Every  branch  in 
me  that  beareth  fruit,  he  purgeth  it  that  it  may  bring 
forth  more  fruit." 

We  felt  that  it  was  hard  to  lay  in  the  grave  the  form 
of  our  dear  friend ;  it  was  hard  to  part  with  the  casket 
which  had  enshrined  the  precious  jewel.  Beautiful  in 
life,  she  was  so  in  death.  The  departing  spirit  had  left 
a  jay  of  brightness  on  its  earthly  house,  and,  in  looking 
at  the  calm  brow  and  peaceful  smile,  death  seemed  di 
vested  of  its  terror.  We  had  twined  the  pure  white 


OURS,   LOVED,   AND   "GONE  BEFORE."  215 

flowers  she  loved  around  and  amongst  the  rich  dark 
masses  of  wavy  hair,  and  she  looked  like  a  beautiful 
bride  more  than  a  tenant  for  -the  grave.  The  memory 
of  that  day  will  live  ever  in  our  minds.  It  was  the  last 
day  of  summer,  and  there  seemed  a  beautiful  appro 
priateness  in  the  season ;  it  seemed  to  us  that  the  sum 
mer  of  our  hearts  had  gone  with  her. 

A  sad  and  mournful  procession,  we  followed  her  re 
mains  to  the  church  so  dear  to  her  in  life.  It  was  but 
a  few  days  since  she  entered  it  in  her  loveliness  and 
bloom,  and  for  the  last  time  on  earth  commemorated  a 
Saviour's  dying  love.  She  will  partake  with  us  here  no 
more.  May  we  be  counted  worthy  to  sit  down  with  her 
at  our  Father's  board  in  heaven !  Mournful  was  the 
eight  of  the  black  pall  which  covered  the  coffin ;  mourn 
ful  the  drapery  which  shrouded  her  accustomed  seat  and 
enveloped  the  chancel ;  mournful  the  badges  which  all, 
as  by  consent,  had  adopted  as  expressive  of  their  feelings 
on  the  occasion ;  but,  oh !  most  mournful  and  heart 
rending  was  the  sight  of  that  husband  and  father  leading 
by  the  hand  on  either  side  all  that  remained  to  him  of 
his  beautiful  family.  It  was  difficult  to  recognise  in  him 
the  man  of  two  short  weeks  before ;  twenty  years  seemed 
added  to  his  life ;  the  eyes,  usually  beaming  with  light, 
now  cast  down  and  swollen  with  weeping — the  counte 
nance,  index  of  a  heart  full  of  peace  and  joy,  now  so 
sorrow-stricken.  Truly,  he  seemed  "smitten  of  God 
and  afflicted."  We  turned  our  eyes  away  as  he  stood 
by  the  grave  which  contained  almost  his  earthly  all. 

It  was  a  beautiful  spot  where  they  laid  her  to  rest  by 
the  side  of  her  baby.  The  sun  was  just  going  down  in 


216  OURS,   LOVED,   AND   "GONE   BEFORE." 

a  golden  flood  of  light,  betokening  a  glorious  morrow 
(beautiful  emblem  of  the  resurrection,  when  this  perish 
ing  body  should  be  raised  in  glory),  and  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  were  lengthening  on  the  grass.  Every  sound 
ivas  in  sweet  accordance  with  the  scene ;  the  soft  twit 
tering  of  the  birds  as  they  sought  their  resting-places 
for  the  night,  the  quiet  hum  of  the  insects,  and  the 
sweet  .murmuring  of  the  brook  which  flowed  at  a  little 
distance. 

A  holy  calm  pervaded  our  minds  as  we  wended  our 
way  between  the  trees  and  down  the  slope  which  bounded 
this  lovely  spot ;  and,  as  we  left  the  gate,  we  involun 
tarily  paused  and  looked  back  long  and  earnestly  on  the 
sweet  view.  Every  object  was  bathed  in  that  golden 
haze  so  peculiar  to  the  last  days  of  summer  and  the 
beginning  of  autumn ;  but  at  this  time  it  seemed  to  us 
that  the  flood  of  soft  light  had  escaped  from  the  gate  of 
heaven  which  we  imagined  had  opened  to  receive  the 
form  lost  to  our  sight. 

Oh,  we  miss  her  more  and  more,  everywhere  !  in  our 
walks  and  visits ;  in  the  missionary  circle,  of  which  she  was 
so  ready  and  active  a  member ;  in  the  Sunday  school ;  in 
her  accustomed  seat  in  church ;  and  we  miss  the  soft 
tones  of  her  voice  in  prayer,  and  the  rich  outpourings 
of  her  melody  in  praise. 

The  poor  of  the  parish  have,  indeed,  lost  a  friend,  as 
their  tears  and  remembrance  amply  testify  when  they 
recount  her  kindnesses,  her  gentle  words,  her  deeds  of 
charity  and  love.  "  Flowers  grew  under  the  feet  of  her," 
said  one  wretchedly  poor,  yet,  I  thought,  quite  poetical 
old  woman,  whose  declining  days  she  had  lightened  of 


OURS,    LOVED,    AND   "GONE   BEFORE."  217 

much  of  their  weariness.  A  track  of  glory  seems  that 
which  she  has  left  behind ;  and  there  was  so  much  that 
was  beautiful  and  consoling  in  her  last  hours  that  it  were 
selfishness  to  wish  her  back.  She  is  with  the  Saviour 
she  loved ;  she  folds  again  to  her  heart  the  little  one 
whose  loss  she  had  not  time  to  realize  on  earth;  to 
gether  they  have  entered  on  their  "  long  age  of  bliss  in 
heaven." 

Does  not  that  death-scene  speak  volumes  in  attesta 
tion  of  the  religion  she  professed,  of  the  Saviour  she 
adored  ?  That  young  fair  being,  surrounded  by  all  that 
makes  life  happy;  friends  who  loved,  a  husband  who 
idolized,  children  who  clung  to  her ;  with  a  heart  full 
of  love  and  sympathy  for  all,  rejoicing  with  those  who 
rejoiced,  and  weeping  with  those  who  wept;  of  rare 
beauty  and  rarer  accomplishments,  a  sunbeam  on  the 
face  of  the  earth ;  yet  she  willingly  left  all  when  her 
Father  called  her.  Is  not  her  faith  worth  striving 
after  ? 

We  have  reason  (blessed  be  God  !)  to  see  already  some 
good  effects  from  the  contemplation  of  her  life  and  death. 
The  young  have  received  a  warning,  thoughtlessness  a 
check.  "We  have  realized  that  neither  youth  nor  beauty 
is  a  security  against  the  ravages  of  the  spoiler. 

God  grant  that  our  dear  pastor  may  experience  the 
truth  of  the  words  of  the  Psalmist :  "  Those  who  sow  in 
tears  shall  reap  in  joy."  He  feels  that  his  treasure  is 
laid  up  in  heaven,  and  we  know  that  his  heart  is  there. 
To  see  his  dear  one  happy  had  ever  been  his  chief  desire, 
and  he  would  not  call  her  back,  for  he  knows  that  she 


218 


OURS,   LOVED,   AND    "GONE   BEFORE." 

the  eniovment  of  a  bliss  that  the  woi 


is  now  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  bliss  that  the  world  cannot 
give. 

Though  cast  down,  he  is  not  destroyed ;  he  has  come 
unscathed  from  this  furnace  of  affliction,  because  one 
like  the  Son  of  God  was  with  him.  With  eyes  turned 
heavenward,  he  waits  his  appointed  time.  The  religion 
of  the  cross  glistens  like  a  gem  on  his  dark-robed  for 
tunes,  and  points  him  to  fairer  worlds,  where  the  love 
that  grew  here  amidst  clouds  will  be  made  perfect  in  a 
light  that  knows  no  shadow,  where  he  and  his  departed 
ones  will  again  have  one  home,  one  altar,  and  one  rest 
ing  place. 

Like  his  Divine  Master,  he  goes  about  doing  good. 
Oftener  than  ever  is  he  found  amongst  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  affliction ;  more  than  ever  are  they  objects 
of  his  special  care ;  his  precept  is  blessed  by  his  ex 
ample,  and  thus  many  a  prodigal  son  has  he  recalled 
from  his  wanderings,  many  an  outcast  gathered  into  the 
fold,  many  a  wayworn  pilgrim  pointed  to  his  true  rest, 
many  a  mourner  comforted.  They  saw  that  the  resig 
nation  he  preached  to  others  he  practised  himself;  they 
saw  that  the  hand  of  the  Lord  was  heavy  upon  him, 
but  that  yet  he  turned  not  backward ;  they  saw  that  he 
went  his  way  as  a  pilgrim  pressing  forward  to  a  better 
country.  Most  brilliant  will  be  the  diadem  which  the 
Lord,  the  righteous  Judge,  shall  give  him  in  the  last 
day,  for  are  not  these  words  of  Holy  Writ,  "  They  who 
turn  many  to  righteousness  shall  shine  like  the  stars  for 
ever  and  ever?" 


OUTWARD  MINISTERINGS. 

EACH  owns  some  secret  law ; — the  flowers  that  flourish 
Bloom  in  their  season,  in  their  season  die ; 

Dews  flow  beneath,  their  feeble  strength  to  nourish, 
The  wind,  Earth's  angels,  life's  sweet  breath  supply. 

As  in  the  wondrous  world  of  faultless  Nature, 

So  in  the  moral  universe  of  man, 
Given  for  the  spirit's  every  form  and  feature, 

Are  powers  fulfilling  its  immortal  plan. 

Whether  its  aim  be  fixed  on  seeking  Pleasure, 
Whilst  draining  deep  her  falsely-sparkling  bowl, 

Or  in  the  light  of  Love  be  sought  the  treasure 
Whose  worth  may  satisfy  the  craving  soul ; 

Whether  it  court  the  applause  of  listening  nations, 
And  toil,  with  earnest  energy,  for  fame, 

Or  seek  with  nobler  hopes  those  elevations, 

Whence  from  its  God  with  spotless  robes  it  came : 

All  help  to  lead  it  on ;  to  Truth  or  Error, 
Darkness  or  Light,  as  its  own  pathway  lies ; 

Here,  seeming  seraphs,  hidden  shapes  of  terror, 
There,  darksome  shadows,  angels  in  disguise. 

Behold  yon  miser  bend,  with  palsied  fingers, 
O'er  the  rich  gold  around  him  glittering  piled, 

How,  with  a  father's  care,  he  tireless  lingers 
By  life's  all-precious  hope,  his  darling — child. 

Fond  wretch !  his  aim  to  narrow  life  is  bounded, 
Yet,  true  to  Nature,  all  for  him  hath  proved ; 

The  glorious  gifts  that  once  his  path  surrounded, 
Have  served  to  strengthen  feelings  basely  loved  1 


220  OUTWARD   MINISTERINdS. 

By  glittering  lights,  behold  yon  splendid  palace, 
See  squalid  youth  and  beauty  enter  there, 

Eager  to  drown  within  the  brimming  chalice, 
All  pangs  of  grief — all  thoughts  of  woe  or  care. 

Alas !  for  them,  that  such  a  sad  fruition 

Should  burst  from  seeds  bright  with  the  hues  of  Time ; 
These  specious  splendours  fail  not  in  their  mission, 
But  spur  their  spirits  on  the  road  to  crime ! 

In  yonder  room,  behold  a  beauteous  maiden, 
"Who  bright  the  standard  of  her  hope  unrolls ; 

But,  oh !  that  smiling  bark,  with  evil  laden, 
Leads  on  to  fatal  depths,  or  treacherous  shoals ! 

Gaze  on  the  gambler,  pale  with  care  and  sorrow, 
And  mark  the  dismal  shades  he  long  hath  trod, 

Who  lives  to  witness  each  returning  morrow, 
Sin-burdened,  roll  before  an  outraged  God ! 

Seest  thou  the  light  from  yonder  casement  streaming  ? 

Seest  thou  the  shadow  on  the  window  cast  ? 
There,  lost  in  thought  and  poesy's  wild  dreaming, 

Waits  one  to  hear  Fame's  loud  but  fickle  blast. 

This  is  his  life's  great  aim ;  but  what  beyond  it  ? 

Of  Truth's  bright  treasure  though  he  love  to  tell, 
In  barren  mines  of  lore  he  hath  not  found  it, 

Bowing  beneath  his  idol's  deadly  spell. 

But  gaze  on  One,  who  seeks  in  all  around  him, 
Lessons  of  good  to  cheer  him  on  his  way, 

As  every  golden  year  through  life  hath  found  him 
Nearer  the  realms  of  Heaven's  eternal  day. 

With  him  events  of  earth  are  sweet  evangels, 

All  meaner  things  but  step-stones  hurled  beneath ; 

Whilst  nobler  lead  to  Eden-realms  of  angels, 
With  shining  robes,  and  crown,  and  amaranth  wreath. 


BODILY   DEFORMITY,    SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY.  221 

Oh !  fellow-pilgrims  through  this  desert  dreary, 

la  all  the  scenes  of  life  God's  mercy  trace, 
Then  though  with  grief  cast  down,  with  watching  weary, 

Strong  shall  ye  stand  in  His  sufficient  grace ! 

Thus  sweet,  melodious  tones  and  forms  of  beauty, 
All  glorious  sights  and  sounds  may  ever  prove 

Angels  to  lure  us  on  the  path  of  duty, 
Echoes  of  symphonies  that  float  above ! 


BODILY  DEFORMITY,  SPIRITUAL  BEAUTY. 

WHO  has  not  observed  in  passing  through  the  crowded 
streets  of  our  city,  how  great,  comparatively,  is  the  num 
ber  of  those,  who  are  more  or  less  deformed  ?  My  heart 
aches  for  these  poor  unfortunates,  who  are  deprived  of 
some  of  the  legitimate  avenues  of  enjoyment  which  God 
has  so  bounteously  vouchsafed  to  me. 

Here  is  one  (and  it  would  seem  to  me  the  most  unmiti 
gated  of  all  the  catalogue)  who  is  groping  his  way  along 
in  darkness,  holding  fast  by  the  hand  of  a  little  girl. 
There  is  another  who  has  lost  a  limb,  and  makes  his 
way  along  with  the  utmost  difficulty.  Yonder  is  one 
so  extreniely  deformed,  that  his  sensitiveness  forbids 
him  often  to  appear  in  the  crowded  streets.  And  there 
is  another  still,  who  is  quite  helpless,  sitting  in  a  little 
wagon  drawn  about  by  a  faithful  dog. 

In  the  minds  of  different  individuals,  these  various 
aspects  of  deformity  produce  pity,  disgust,  and  horror  ; 
but  I  have  often  thought,  could  we  but  look,  as  God 


222  BODILY  DEFORMITY,   SPIRITUAL  BEAUTY. 

looks — down  into  the  audience  chamber  of  the  spirit — 
the  heart — how  differently  our  minds  would  be  affected 
at  the  sight  of  these  bodily  deformities.  Perhaps  yon 
poor  blind  man,  grinding  away  upon  his  hand-organ, 
whose  natural  eyes  for  long,  weary  years,  have  been 
closed  against  the  profusion  of  beauty  around  him,  has 
had  the  eyes'  of  his  understanding  opened,  and  the  pure 
light  from  the  eternal  throne  illumes  the  depth  of  his 
soul.  Perhaps  he,  who  hobbles  slowly  and  sadly  along 
upon  his  crutches,  treads  with  care  and  unknown  joy, 
the  narrow  way, — and  when,  life's  journey's  over,  he 
walks  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  he 
will  fear  no  evil ;  for  a  rod  and  a  staff  unknown  to  his 
earthly  pilgrimage,  they  will  comfort  him.  Who  shall 
say  but  he,  whose  deformity  drives  him  from  the  public 
way,  walks  continually  before  God  and  Angels — a  per 
fect  man  ?  It  may  be,  that  yon  helpless  one — so  help 
less  that  his  mother  feeds  him — has  power  to  move  the 
arm  that  moves  the  world ;  for  God  hears  prayer. 

It  is  a  most  solemn  truth  that  He  who  is  the  judge 
of  quick  and  dead,  looks  not  upon  the  outer  man ;  but 
upon  his  inner,  spiritual  nature.  With  His  judgment, 
it  matters  not,  that  a  man  be  deformed ;  that  his  eyes 
be  blind  or  his  tongue  be  tied :  is  the  heart  all  right  ? — 
has  it  become  a  sanctuary,  meet  for  the  spirit's  residence 
and  lighted  by  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  where  every 
word,  thought,  and  deed,  becomes  an  acceptable  sacri 
fice  to  God  ?  is  it  not  disturbed  by  sin  or  blinded  by 
passion  ?  These  are  the  things  which  have  to  do  in  the 
estimate  which  God  puts  upon  every  intelligent  crea 
ture.  Take  good  care  then,  my  brother  pilgrim,  that 


THE  DEAD   CHILD.  223 

the  heart  is  all  right — though  the  body  which  covers  it 
for  a  little  season  is  distorted  and  maimed. 


THE  DEAD  CHILD. 

"  Though  our  tears  fell  fast  and  faster, 

Yet  we  would  not  call  her  back ; 
"We  are  glad  her  feet  no  longer 

Tread  life's  rough  and  thorny  track. 
We  are  glad  our  Heavenly  Father 

Took  her  while  her  heart  was  pure ; 
We  are  glad  He  did  not  leave  her, 
«  All  life's  troubles  to  endure. 

We  are  glad — and  yet  the  tear-drop 

Falleth,  for,  alas  !  we  know 
That  our  fireside  will  be  lonely, 

We  shall  miss  our  darling  so  !" 

How  beautiful  a  young  child  in  its  shroud !  Calm  and 
heavenly  looks  the  white  face  on  which  the  blighting 
breath  of  sin  never  rested. 

The  silken  curls  parted  from  the  marble  brow — the 
once  bright  eyes  closed — once  red  lips  pale — little  hands 
that  have  ofttimes  been  clasped  as  the  lips  repeated 
"  Our  Father,"  now  meekly  folded  over  the  throbless 
heart,  tell  us  that  Death,  cruel,  relentless  Death,  has 
been  there. 

Surely,  the  soul  that  once  beamed  from  those  closed 
eyes  is  happy !  Hath  not  the  Saviour  said,  "  Of  such 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven?"  Robed  like  an  angel  is  she 
now,  a  lamb  in  the  Saviour's  bosom.  Could  parental 


224  WATER. 

love  ask  more  ?  Surely  not.  Cleansed  from  all  earthly 
taint ;  secure  from  all  trouble,  care,  or  sin,  those  eyes 
will  no  more  weep ;  but  the  tiny  hands  will  sweep  a 
golden  harp,  and  the  childish  voice  will  be  heard  making 
music  in  heaven. 

Often,  0,  how  often  had  our  hearts  said,  "  God  bless 
her!"  And  has  not  our  prayer  been  answered?  The 
yearnings  of  love  cannot  be  stifled;  for  we  miss  the 
loving  clasp  of  white  arms — the  soft  pressure  of  fresh 
lips— the  prattle  and  smile  that  were  music  and  light  to 
our  world-weary  hearts ;  our  hand  moves  in  vain  for  a 
resting-place  on  the  golden  head ;  yet  we  feel,  we  know 
that  "  it  is  well  with  the  child,"  for  we  see  how  much 
of  woe  she  has  escaped ;  how  much  of  bliss  she  has 
gained ;  a  home  with  the  sinless  ;  the  companionship  of 
angels  for  ETERNITY.  Blessed  one ! 

Alone,  yet  fearlessly,  didst  thou  pass  through  the 
"dark  valley"  and  enter  into  the  home  prepared  for 
thee.  As  fearlessly,  trustingly  msfy  we  meet  the  con 
queror,  Death,  and  when  the  conflict  is  ended,  meet  thee 
in  thy  new  home  to  dwell  for  evermore ! 


WATER. 

GOD  is  the  author  of  all  our  blessings.  There  is  no 
truth,  perhaps,  to  which  we  are  more  ready  to  give  our 
assent  than  this ;  and  yet,  a  great  many  people  seem  to 
act  as  if  they  did  not  believe  it,  or,  at  least,  as  if  they 
were  prone  to  forget  it. 


WATER.  225 

A  traveller  stopped  at  a  fountain,  and,  letting  the 
rein  he  held  in  his  hand  fall  upon  the  neck  of  his  horse, 
permitted  the  thirsty  animal  to  drink  of  the  cooling  water 
that  came  pouring  down  from  a  rocky  hill,  and  spread 
itself  out  in  a  basin  below.  While  the  weary  beast 
refreshed  himself,  the  traveller  looked  at  the  bright 
stream  that  sparkled  in  the  sunlight,  and  said  thus  to 
himself: — 

"  What  a  blessing  is  water !  How  it  refreshes, 
strengthens,  and  purifies !  And  how  bountifully  it  is 
given  !  Everywhere  flows  this  good  gift  of  our  Heavenly 
Father,  and  it  is  as  free  as  the  air  to  man  and  beast." 

While  he  thus  mused,  a  child  came  to  the  fountain. 
She  had  a  vessel  in  her  hand,  and  she  stooped  to  fill  it 
with  water. 

"  Give  me  a  drink,  my  good  little  girl,"  said  the  tra- 
Teller. 

And,  with  a  smiling  face,  the  child  reached  her  pitcher 
to  the  man  who  still  sat  on  his  horse. 

"Who  made  this  water?"  said  the  traveller,  as  he 
handed  the  vessel  back  to  the  child. 

"  God  made  it,"  was  her  quick  reply. 

"And  do  you  know  anything  that  water  is  like?" 
asked  the  traveller. 

"  Oh,  yes !     Father  says  that  water  is  like  truth." 

"Does  he?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  says  that  water  is  like  truth,  because 
truth  purifies  the  mind  as  water  does  the  body." 

"  That  is  wisely  said,"  returned  the  traveller.     "  And 
truth   quenches    our  thirst   for  knowledge,    as   water 
quenches  the  thirst  of  our  lips." 
15 


226  BEATIFUL,   HAPPY,   AND  BELOVED. 

The  little  girl  smiled  as  this  was  said,  and,  taking  up 
her  pitcher,  went  back  to  her  home. 

"Yes,  water  represents  truth,"  said  the  traveller,  as 
he  rode  thoughtfully  away.  "  The  child  was  right.  It 
purifies  and  refreshes  us,  and  is  spread  out,  like  truth, 
on  every  hand,  free  for  those  who  will  take  it.  When 
ever  I  look  upon  water  again,  I  will  think  of  it  as  repre 
senting  truth ;  and  then  I  will  remember  that  it  is  as 
important  to  the  mind's  health  and  purity  to  have  truth 
as  it  is  for  the  body  to  have  water." 

Thus,  from  a  simple  fountain,  as  it  leaped  out  from 
the  side  of  a  hill,  the  traveller  gained  a  lesson  of  wisdom. 
And  so,  as  we  pass  through  the  world,-we  may  find  in 
almost  every  natural  object  that  exists  something  that 
will  turn  our  minds  to  higher  and  better  thoughts.  Every 
tree  and  flower,  every  green  thing  that  grows,  and  every 
beast  of  the  field  and  bird  of  the  air,  have  in  them  a 
signification,  if  we  could  but  learn  it.  They  speak  to 
us  in  a  spiritual  language,  and  figure  forth  to  our  natural 
senses  the  higher,  more  beautiful,  and  more  enduring 
things  of  the  mind. 


BEAUTIFUL,  HAPPY,  AND  BELOVED. 

WOCLDST  thou  be  beautiful  ? 
Ah,  then,  be  pure !  be  pure !    An  angel's  face 

Is  the  transparent  mirror  of  her  soul. 
If  ghastly  guilt  on  fairest  brows  you  trace, 

Then  do  you  hear  the  knell  of  beauty  toll. 
Let  Purity  her  seal  on  thee  impress, 
And  thine  shall  be  angelic  loveliness. 
The  pure  are  beautiful. 


"EVERY  CLOUD  HAS  A  SILVER  LINING."         227 

Wouldst  thou  be  dearly  loved  ? 
Then  love,  love  truly  all  that  God  has  made  ; 
For  by  His  name  of  love  is  He  best  known. 
No  .damp  distrust  be  on  thy  spirit  laid ; 

And  let  affection's  words  and  deeds  be  one. 

Thy  soul's  warm  fountain  shall  not  gush  in  vain ; 

From  Love's  deep  source  it  shall  be  filled  again  ; 

For  they  who  love,  are  loved. 

And  wouldst  thou  happy  be  ? 
Then  make  the  truth  thy  talisman,  thy  guide. 

Be  truth  the  stone  in  all  thy  jewels  set. 
Into  thy  heart  its  opal-light  shall  glide, 

And  guide  thee  where  are  happier  spirits  yet. 
For  these  three  rays  are  in  the  shining  crown  : 
The  seraph  by  the  Throne  of  Light  lays  down, 
Truth,  Love,  and  Purity. 


"EVERY  CLOUD  HAS  A  SILVER  LINING." 

WHAT  !  can  this  be  true  in  this  dark  world  of  ours, 
where  the  thick  clouds  of  sorrow,  disappointed  hopes, 
and  bereavements  are  continually  hanging  over  us,  ob 
scuring  even  the  bright  star  of  hope ;  where  upon  every 
passing  breeze  is  borne  deep  wailings  of  woe,  bitter 
sighs  ascending  from  bruised  and  broken  hearts  mourn 
ing  over  lost  hopes,  crushed  affections,  wasted  love ; 
struggling  vainly  for  victory  in  the  fierce  battle  of  life ; 
groping  about  in  darkness  to  catch,  if  possible,  one 
gleam  of  sunlight  from  the  heavy  clouds — but  in  vain  ? 

"Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust."  Another  shrine  rob 
bed  of  its  idol ;  another  hearth  left  desolate.  See,  how 
the  black  clouds  settle  down  and  press  more  closely 


228         "EVERY  CLOUD  HAS  A  SILVER  LINING." 

around  that  lonely  widowed  one.  Grim  Death  mocks  at 
his  grief  from  the  open  grave,  so  soon  to  receive  his 
heart's  idol.  Ay,  remove  the  coffin  lid ;  gaze  with  all 
the  agonizing  bitterness  of  a  last  look  upon  that  cold 
marble  face ;  was  aught  on  earth  so  lovely  ?  Kiss  for 
the  last  time  the  pure  forehead.  Ah !  those  pale  white 
lips  give  back  no  answering  pressure  of  love ;  sealed 
for  ever  by  that  last  chilling  blast  from  the  cold  river. 

And  now  the  damp  earth  presses  heavily  over  that 
cherished  form ;  far  down  in  the  darkness  and  silence 
of  the  grave  must  the  loved  one  remain,  never  more  to 
cheer  by  her  gentle  words  of  love  and  kindness,  the 
heart  of  him  who  so  needed  her  sympathy  and  fove. 
Gone,  gone  for  ever. 

What  on  earth  is  now  beautiful  or  bright  since  the 
dearest,  best  treasure  is  removed  ?  Oh,  no  !  there  can 
be  no  bright  spot  in  affliction  like  this ;  there  can  be  no 
bright  ray  to  gild  this  night  of  sorrow. 

Ah !  thou  erring  mortal,  repine  not.  The  all-wise 
Father  knew  thy  frail  heart,  saw  thy  whole  life  and 
soul  bound  up  in  that  one  creature,  weak  and  sinful  like 
thyself ;  forgetful  of  the  Creator ;  and  wilt  thou  dare 
raise  thy  feeble  voice  against  the  Almighty  when  He 
removed  the  idol  that  He  alone  may  reign  ?  Wilt  thou 
not  bow  meekly,  kiss  the  rod,  and  accept  the  bitter  cup 
of  bereavement,  offered  as  it  is  in  mercy  ? 

And  is  this  all  ?  Is  there  no  life  beyond  the  grave  ? 
Is  the  spirit  which  held  such  communion  with  thine  for 
ever  quenched  ? 

Can  the  grave  contain  for  ever  the  immortal  part? 
Look  up,  oh !  mourning  one ;  thy  loved  one  is  not  there. 


"  EVEBY   CLOUD   HAS   A    SILVER   LINING."  229 

Hark  !  nearest  thou  not  soft,  heavenly  voices,  whisper 
ing  sweetly  of  a  life  beyond  the  dark  river,  where  Death 
can  never  come ;  of  glorious  mansions  where  is  peace 
and  joy  for  ever  more,  and  of  another  freed  spirit  wel 
comed  to  the  blissful  home  ?  Dost  thou  not  feel  upon 
thy  tear-moistened  cheek,  gentle  wavings  of  angel  wings 
perfumed  with  the  breath  of  heavenly  flowers  ? 

Even  now,  may  the  happy  glorified  spirit  of  thy  loved 
one  be  hovering  around ;  think  you  it  would  return  again 
to  that  perishing  body  of  clay  ? 

The  sweet  star  of  faith  is  already  rising  over  thy 
grief;  the  clouds,  all  bright  and  shining  with  hues 
caught  from  heavenly  skies,  are  no  longer  dark  and 
rayless ;  and  now,  even  with  thy  lonely  bleeding  heart, 
canst  thou  humbly  receive  the  chastisement  from  Him 
who  doeth  all  things  well. 

Henceforth  will  earth  seem  less  dear,  heaven  nearer, 
and  more  to  be  desired ;  thy  own  cherished  companion 
is  there,  and  who  can  know  but  that  her  pure  spirit  may 
sometimes  look  down  upon  thee,  still  to  encourage  thy 
endeavours  to  battle  manfully  with  life  and  its  trials, 
still  to  cheer  and  console  in  thy  hours  of  distress ;  but 
now,  with  heart  and  affections  all  purified  from  the  dross 
of  earth,  will  not  the  influence  be  more  blessed  than 
when  she  walked  with  bodily  presence  at  thy  side  ? 

Yes,  thanks  to  our  merciful  Father,  every  cloud  has 
a  silver  lining,  however  dark  the  side  presented  to  our 
view,  ladened  heavy  though  it  be  with  sorrows  and  woes, 
which  almost  crush  the  life  from  our  hearts  as  it  presses 
upon  us  ;  yet  there  away,  hidden  from  our  short  mortal 
vision,  gleams  the  soft  silvery  lining,  ever  gently  shining, 


230  AN  ANGEL  OP  PATIENCE. 

perhaps  never  to  be  revealed  in  this  world,  reserved  for 
us  to  discover  after  we  too  have  been  called  from  this 
to  our  heavenly  home,  and  look  back  upon  our  earthly 
pilgrimage  with  rejoicings  that  we  have  been  so  safely 
borne  through  every  trial  and  temptation. 

Ah !  then  will  our  sky  be  without  a  cloud.  All  joyous 
and  happy  will  we  tune  our  harps  anew  to  the  praise  of 
Him  who  loved  us  and  hath  given  us  the  victory  ! 


AN  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE. 

BESIDE  the  toilsome  way, 
Lowly  and  sad,  by  fruits  and  flowers  unblest, 
Which  my  lone  feet  tread  sadly,  day  by  day, 

Longing  in  vain  for  rest, 

An  angel  softly  walks, 

With  pale,  sweet  face,  and  eyes  cast  meekly  down, 
The  while  from  withered  leaves  and  flowerless  stalka 

She  weaves  my  fitting  crown. 

A  sweet  and  patient  grace, 
A  look  of  firm  endurance  true  and  tried, 
Of  suffering  meekly  borne,  rests  on  her  face, 

So  pure — so  glorified. 

And  when  my  fainting  heart 
Desponds  and  murmurs  at  its  adverse  fate, 
Then  quietly  the  angel's  bright  lips  part, 

Murmuring  softly,  "  Wait  I" 

"  Patience  1"  she  meekly  saith — 
"  Thy  Father's  mercies  never  come  too  late; 
Gird  thee  with  patient  strength  and  trusting  faith, 

And  firm  endurance  wait !" 


THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE. 

IT  was  a  golden  sunset,  -which  was  fondly  gazed  upon 
by  an  old  man  on  whose  broad  brow  the  history  of 
seventy  winters  had  been  written.  He  sat  in  the  wide 
porch  of  a  largo  old-fashioned  house :  his  look  was  calm 
and  clear,  though  years  had  quelled  the  fire  of  his  eagle 
glance ;  his  silver  hair  was  borne  mildly  back,  by  the 
south  wind  of  August,  and  a  smile  of  sweetness  played 
over  his  features,  breathing  the  music  of  contentment. 
His  heart  was  still  fresh,  and  his  mind  open  to  receive 
an  impress  of  the  loveliness  of  earth.  The  dew  of  love 
for  his  fellow-creatures  fell  upon  his  aged  soul,  and  pure 
adoration  went  up  to  the  Giver  of  every  good  from  its 
altar.  He  lifted  his  gaze  to  the  cerulean  blue  above 
him,  and  dwelt  upon  his  future,  with  a  glow  of  hope 
upon  his  heart — then  he  turned  to  the  past,  and  his 
beaming  expression  gradually  mellowed  into  pensive- 
ness  :  in  thought,  he  travelled  through  the  long  vista  of 
years  which  he  had  left  behind  him,  and  his  mental  ex 
clamation  was, 

"  There  has  not  been  a  year  of  my  life  since  man 
hood,  that  I  might  not  have  lived  to  a  better  purpose. 
I  might  have  been  more  useful  and  devoted  to  my  race. 
I  might  more  fully  have  sacrificed  the  idol  self,  which 
eo  often  I  have  knelt  to,  in  worship  more  heartfelt  than 
I  offered  the  Divinity.  Yet  have  I  laboured  to  become 
pure  in  thy  sight,  oh,  my  God !  build  thy  kingdom  in 
zny  breast !" 

I 


232  THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE.  *• 

A  tear  trembled  in  the  aged  suppliant's  eye,  and  the 
calm  of  holy  humility  stole  over  him ;  the  gentle  look 
was  again  upon  his  countenance,  when  a  young  man  of 
about  twenty  years,  swung  open  the  gate  leading  to  the 
house,  and,  approaching,  saluted  the  old  man  with  a 
cordial  grasp  of  the  hand;  flinging  his  cap  carelessly 
down,  he  took  a  seat  in  a  rustic  chair,  and  exclaimed 
with  a  smile  of  mingled  affection  and  reverence,  which 
broke  over  his  thoughtful  features,  making  him  ex 
tremely  handsome, 

"  Well,  grandfather,  I  believe  you  complete  seventy 
years  to-day !" 

"  Yes,  my  son,  and  I  have  been  looking  back  upon 
them.  I  do  not  usually  dwell  upon  the  past  with  repin 
ing,  yet  I  see  much  that  might  have  been  better.  My 
years  have  not  always  been  improved." 

The  young  man  listened  respectfully ;  presently  he 
asked,  with  sudden  interest,  "Pray  tell  me,  if  there 
ever  was  a  whole  year  of  your  life,  so  perfectly  happy 
that  you  would  wish  to  live  it  all  over  again  ?" 

"I  have  been  perfectly  happy  at  brief  intervals,"  was 
the  reply,  "  yet  there  is  not  a  year  of  my  long  life,  that 
I  would  choose  to  have  return.  I  have  been  surrounded 
by  many  warm  friends  now  gone  to  their  homes  in  the 
spirit-world, — I  have  loved,  and  have  been  loved,  and 
the  recollection  yet  thrills  me ;  still  I  thank  God  that  I 
am  not  to  live  over  those  years  upon  earth.  I  have 
struggled  much  for  truth  and  goodness,  and  there  has 
not  been  one  struggle  which  I  would  renew,  though  each 
has  been  followed  by  a  deep  satisfaction." 

"  To  me,  your  life  appears  to  have  been  dreary, 

• 


THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE.  233 

grandfather,"  replied  his  companion.  "  I  ask  for  happi 
ness  !"  After  a  pause,  he  added  with  impetuosity,  "  If 
I  am  not  to  meet  with  the  ardent  happiness  I  dream  of, 
and  desire,  I  do  not  care  to  live.  What  is  the  life  which 
thousands  lead,  worth  ?  Nothing !  I  cannot  sail  mono 
tonously  down  the  stream — the  more  I  think,  and  thought 
devours  me,  the  more  discontented  do  I  become  with 
everything  I  see.  Why  is  an  overpowering  desire  for 
happiness  planted  within  the  human  breast,  if  it  is  so 
very  rarely  to  be  gratified  ?  My  childhood  was  some 
times  gay,  but  as  often,  it  was  clouded  by  disappoint 
ments  which  are  great  to  children.  I  have  never  seen 
even  the  moment,  since  I  have  been  old  enough  to  reflect, 
when  I  could  say  that  I  was.  as  happy  as  I  was  capable 
of  being.  I  have  even  felt  the  consciousness  that  my 
soul's  depths  were  not  filled  to  the  brim  with  joy.  I 
could  always  ask  for  more.  In  my  happiest  hours,  the 
eager  question  rushes  upon  me,  involuntarily,  'Am  I 
entirely  content?'  And  the  response  that  rises  up,  is 
ever  '  No.'  I  am  young,  and  this  soft  air  steals  over  a 
brow  of  health — I  can  appreciate  the  beautiful  and 
exquisite.  I  can  drink  in  the  deep  poetry  of  noble 
minds — I  can  idly  revel  in  voluptuous  music,  and  dream 
away  my  soul,  but  with  that  bewitching  dream,  there  is 
still  a  yearning  for  its  realization.  I  cannot  abate  the 
restlessness  that  presses  upon  me — I  look  around,  and 
young  faces  are  bright  and  smiling  with  cheerful  gayety. 
I  endeavour  to  catch  the  buoyant  spirit,  but  I  succeed 
rarely, — if  I  do,  it  floats  on  the  surface,  leaving  the 
under-current  unbroken  in  its  flow.  Yet  after  I  have 
endeavoured  to  lighten  the  oppressive  cares  of  some  un- 


234  THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE. 

fortunate  creature,  a  sort  of  peace  has  for  a  time 
descended  upon  me,  which  has  been  infinitely  soothing. 
It  soon  departs,  and  my  usual  bitterness  again  sways 
me.  I  sought  for  friendship,  and  for  awhile  I  was 
relieved,  but  I  cannot  forbear  glancing  down  into  the 
motives  of  my  fellow  men,  and  that  involuntarily-search 
ing  spirit  has  proved  unfortunate  to  me.  I  met  with 
selfishness  in  the  form  of  attachment,  and  then  I  turned 
to  look  upon  the  hollow  heart  of  society,  and  it  was 
there." 

"Alfred,  you  make  me  sad,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a 
solemn  and  deeply  pained  voice.  "This  is  the  first 
time  I  knew  that  your  heart  was  such  a  temple  of 
bitterness." 

"  If  I  have  saddened  you,  I  wish  I  had  not  spoken : 
but  the  thoughts  rushed  over  me,  your  kind  heart  is 
always  open,  and  I  gave  them  expression.  You  have 
lived  long,  and  there  is  more  sympathy  in  your  experi 
ence,  than  in  the  laughing  jest  of  those  near  my  own 
age.  Pardon  me,  grandfather,  I  will  not  pain  you 
again  !"  Alfred  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  aged  friend  ; 
he  caught  the  look  of  kindness  upon  that  honoured  face, 
and  it  fell  warmly  upon  his  soul. 

"  It  is  right  to  think  deeply,"  said  the  revered  ad 
viser,  "  but  one  must  think  rightly,  also.  You  must  not 
look  out  upon  the  world,  from  the  darkened  corners  of 
your  soul,  or  the  hue  is  transferred  to  all  things  which 
your  glance  falls  upon.  Take  the  torch  of  truth  and 
heavenly  charity  to  chase  away  the  dimness  within  yoi 
then  powerful  changes  will  be  wrought  in  your  vision. 
You  will  begin  to  regard  your  fellow  man  with  new  feel- 


THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE.  235 

ings  of  interest.  I  am  a  plain  and  blunt  old  man, 
Alfred,  but  you  know  that  my  only  desire  is  for  your 
good,  so  bear  with  my  remarks  if  they  be  unpalatable." 

"  Certainly,  sir,  I  value  frankness  before  flattery." 

"  You  say  that  you  have  never  been  perfectly  happy," 
continued  the  old  gentleman ;  "that  is  neither  strange 
nor  uncommon,  for  I  have  met  with  few  thoughtful  per 
sons  of  your  years,  who,  upon  close  reflection,  could  say 
that  their  souls  could  desire  no  more  than  had  been 
granted  to  them.  You  must  seek  for  resignation,  not 
entire  bliss  upon  earth,  although  it  is  possible  that  you 
may  enjoy  it  for  a  season." 

"  Why  is  joy  so  transitory,  and  unquiet  so  lasting  ?" 
demanded  the  young  man  impatiently. 

"  The  fault  is  not  in  the  transitoriness  of  the  joy,  but 
in  the  very  soul  itself, — it  is  in  a  state  of  disorder ;  its 
nature  must  be  changed  before  it  can  receive  for  ever 
only  the  image  of  gladness.  In  a  chaos  of  the  elements, 
can  a  smiling  sky  be  always  seen?  Lay  asleep  all 
unruly  elements  in  the  spirit,  and  a  pure  heaven  of 
brightness  will  then  greet  the  uplifted  glance." 

"  But  how  can  all  this  be  done,  grandfather  ?  What 
unruly  elements  do  you  speak  of?  What  can  I  do,  for 
instance  ?  I  certainly  am  willing  and  glad  to  see  my 
kind  happy — if  my  soul  be  in  disorder,  I  do  not  know 
in  what  it  consists,  or  how  to  bring  it  to  order.  I  am 
weary  of  its  unsatisfied  desires ;  it  is  continually  in 
search  of  something  which  it  has  never  caught  sight  of, 
— and  the  fear,  that  that  unknown,  yet  powerfully 
desired  something  may  never  come  to  quench  my  thirst, 
falls  with  the  coldness  of  death  upon  my  bosom." 


THE   GRANDFATHER  8   ADVICE. 


"  That  something  may  be  found  by  every  human  being, 
if  sought  for  in  the  right  way.  Those  yearnings  are 
not  given  us,  that  they  may  fall  back  and  wither  the 
fountain  from  which  they  spring.  But  the  question  is, 
do  we  seek  for  happiness  in  the  right  way  ?  Do  we  not 
rather  ask  for  an  impossibility,  when  we  ask  for  per 
manent  bliss,  before  we  have  laid  a  foundation  in  our 
souls  for  it  ?  You  wish  to  take  this  life  too  easy  by  far, 
my  son ;  rouse  up  all  your  strength,  look  around  you 
with  the  keenness  of  a  resolved  spirit,  and  seek  to 
regenerate  your  whole  being, — let  that  be  your  object, 
and  let  the  desire  for  happiness  be  subservient  to  it. 
You  will  clasp  joy  to  your  breast,  as  an  everlasting  gift, 
at  the  end  of  the  race.  What  are  your  aims  and  objects  ? 
You  hardly  know;  you  are  in  pursuit  of  that  which 
flees  before  you  as  a  shadow,  and  your  restless  spirit 
sinks  and  murmurs, — you  have  no  grand  object  in  view, 
to  buoy  you  up  steadily  and  trustfully  through  every  ill 
which  life  has  power  to  bestow.  Those  very  ills  are 
seized  upon,  and  become  instruments  of  glory  to  the 
devoted  and  heaven-strengthened  spirit, — they  prepare 
for  a  deeper  draught  of  all  things  dear  and  desired,  and 
though  the  soul  droop  beneath  the  weight  of  human 
suffering,  yet  the  rod  that  smites  is  kissed  with  a  prayer. 
Turn  away  from  your  individual  self,  as  far  as  you  can, 
and  regard  the  broad  world  with  a  philanthropic  eye — " 

"Impossible — impossible!"  interrupted  Alfred,  has 
tily,  "  I  defy  any  person  to  turn  from  himself,  and  look 
upon  the  world  with  a  more  interested  gaze  than  he  casts 
upon  his  own  heart.  One  may  be  philanthropic  in  his 
feelings  and  devoted  to  alleviating  the  distresses  of  less 


THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE.  237 

fortunate  beings,  but  I  hold  it  to  be  impossible  that  our 
individual  selves  will  not  always  be  first  in  interest.  A 
sudden  and  powerful  impulse  may  carry  us  away  for  a 
time,  but  after  that  rushing  influence  leaves  us,  we  see 
ourselves  again,  ancj.  find  that  we  had  only  lost  our 
equilibrium  briefly.  I  say  only  what  I  sincerely  think, 
and  what  thousands  secretly  know  to  be  the  case,  even 
while  advocating  views  quite  opposite.  There  is  no 
candour  in  the  world  !" 

"  Softly,  my  good  friend,"  said  the  grandfather, 
mildly  smiling.  "  I  also  hold  it  to  be  impossible  that 
we  can  lose  either  our  individuality  or  our  interest  in 
ourselves,  but  I  believe  it  possible  that  we  may  love 
others  just  as  well,  if  not  better  than  ourselves.  I  do 
not  refer  to  one  or  two  particular  persons  whom  we  may 
admire,  but  I  speak  of  the  mass  of  our  fellow-creatures." 

"  I  cannot  even  conceive  of  such  a  love !"  returned 
the  young  man,  shaking  his  head.  "I  cannot  see  how  I 
could  love  a  person  who  possesses  no  attractive  qualities 
whatever ; — I  always  feel  indifference,  if  not  dislike.  I 
think  I  could  sacrifice  my  life  to  one  I  loved,  if  thrown 
into  sudden  and  imminent  danger ;  still,  I  think  I  might 
give  pain  to  that  same  person  many  times,  by  gratifying 
myself.  For  instance,  grandfather, — suppose  you  were 
to  be  led  to  the  stake,  to  be  burned  to-morrow, — I  would 
take  your  place  to  save  you ;  yet  I  do  not  now  do  all  I 
possibly  can,  to  add  to  your  happiness.  I  gratify  whims 
of  my  own ;  I  idle  away  hours  in  the  woods,  or  by  some 
stream,  when  I  fully  know  that  it  would  be  more  pleas 
ing  to  you,  to  see  me  bending  patiently  over  my  Greek 
and  Latin." 


238  THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE. 

"  Very  true  !"  sighed  the  old  man.  "You  prove  your 
own  position,  which  is  that  your  ruling  love  is  self- 
love." 

Alfred  lifted  up  his  eyebrows,  as  if  he  had  heard  an 
unwelcome  fact.  We  are  often  willing  to  confess  things, 
which  we  do  not  like  to  have  told  us.  He  fell  into  deep 
thought.  Finally  he  said,  "It  is  universally  allowed 
that  virtue  is  lovely ;  those  who  practise  it,  appear  calm 
and  resigned,  and  often  happy — but,  to  tell  the  truth, 
such  enjoyment  seems  rather  tame  and  flat.  I  wish  to 
be  in  freedom,  to  let  my  burning  impulses  rush  on  aa 
they  will,  without  a  yoke.  I  love,  and  I  hate,  as  my 
heart  bids  me,  and  I  scorn  control  of  any  kind." 

"  Yet  you  submit  to  a  yoke,  my  son ;  one  which  is  not 
of  your  own  imposing  either." 

"  What  kind  of  a  yoke  ?" 

"  The  yoke  of  society, — you  bow  to  public  opinion 
in  a  measure.  You  avoid  a  glaring  act,  often,  more 
because  it  will  not  be  approved,  than  because  you  have 
a  real  disinclination  for  it.  Is  not  that  the  case  some 
times  ?" 

Alfred  did  not  exceedingly  relish  this  probing,  but  he 
was  too  candid  to  cover  up  his  motives  from  himself. 
He  answered  a  decided  "yes!"  but  it  was  spoken,  be 
cause  he  could  not  elbow  himself  out  of  the  self-evident 
conviction  forced  upon  him. 

"  Do  you  think  it  degrading  for  a  man  to  conquer  and 
govern  the  strongest,  as  well  as  the  weakest  impulses  of 
his  soul?"  pursued  his  grandfather. 

"  Certainly  not  degrading, — it  is  in  the  highest  degree 
worthy  of  praise.  It  is  truly  noble !  I  acknowledge  it." 


THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE.  239 

"  And  yet  you  deem  such  enjoyment  as  would  result 
from  this  government,  tame  and  flat." 

"  I  beg  pardon ;  when  I  spoke  of  virtue,  I  referred  to 
that  smooth  kind  which  is  current,  and  seems  more 
passive  than  active, — that  soft  amiability  which  appears 
to  deaden  enthusiasm,  and  to  shut  up  the  soul  in  a  set 
of  opinions,  instead  of  expanding  it  widely  to  everything 
noble  and  generous,  wherever  it  may  be  found." 

"  It  was  not  genuine  virtue,  you  referred  to,  then, — 
it  was  only  its  resemblance." 

"  It  was  what  passes  for  virtue.  But  to  come  at  the 
main  point,  grandfather; — where  is  happiness  to  be 
found,  if  we  are  to  be  warring  with  ourselves  during  a 
lifetime,  checking  every  natural  spring  in  the  soul?" 

"  Stop  there,  Alfred !  We  only  quench  the  streams, 
which  prevent  the  spirit's  purest  wells  of  noble  and 
happy  feelings  from  gushing  forth  in  freedom.  We  must 
wage  a  warfare,  it  is  true ;  why  conceal  it  ?  But  it 
does  not  last  for  ever,  and  intervals  of  gladness  come  to 
refresh  us,  which  the  worn  and  blunted  spirit  of  the  man 
of  pleasure  in  vain  pants  for.  An  exquisite  joy,  innocent 
as  that  of  childhood,  pervades  the  bosom  of  truth's 
soldier  in  his  hours  of  peace  and  rest,  and  he  lifts  an 
eye  of  rapture  to  heaven — to  God." 

Alfred  dwelt  earnestly  upon  the  noble  countenance  of 
the  speaker,  and  his  bosom  filled  with  unwonted  emotion, 
as  the  heavenly  sweetness  of  the  old  man's  smile  pene 
trated  into  his  inward  soul.  Goodness  stood  before  him 
in  its  wonderful  power,  and  he  bowed  down  his  soul  in 
worship.  How  insignificant  then  seemed  his  individual 
yearnings  after  present  enjoyment,  instead  of  that  celes- 


240  THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE. 

tial  love  which  can  fill  a  human  soul  with  so  strong  a 
power  from  on  high.  He  reflected  upon  that  venerable 
being's  life — so  strong  and  upright ;  he  dwelt  upon  his 
large  and  noble  heart,  which  could  clasp  the  world  in 
its  embrace.  He  remembered  months  of  acute  suffering, 
both  physical  and  mental,  which  had  been  endured  with 
the  stillness  of  a  martyr's  inward  strength ;  and  then, 
too,  he  recalled  times  when  that  aged  heart  was  more 
truly  and  deeply  joyful  than  his  own  young  spirit  had 
even  been.  Both  relapsed  into  the  eloquent  silence  of 
absorbing  thought.  It  was  evident  from  the  softened 
and  meditative  cast  of  Alfred's  features,  that  his  bitter 
ness  had  given  way  to  the  true  tenderness  of  feeling  it 
so  often  quelled ;  he  revolved  in  his  mind  all  that  had 
been  advanced  by  his  grandfather,  and  he  dwelt  upon 
every  point  with  candour  and  serious  reflection.  A  strong 
impression  was  made  upon  him,  but  he  was  entirely 
silent  in  regard  to  it, — he  waited  to  try  his  strength, 
before  he  spoke  of  the  better  resolutions  that  were 
formed,  not  without  effort,  in  his  mind.  He  felt  a  con 
viction  that  a  change  from  selfishness  to  angelic  charity 
might  be  accomplished,  if  Tie  were  but  willing  to  co 
operate  with  his  Maker, — the  conception  of  universal 
love  slowly  dawned  upon  his  soul,  now  turned  heaven 
ward  for  light, — his  duties  as  a  responsible  being  came 
before  him,  and  a  sigh  of  reproach  was  given  to  the 
past.  Then  golden  visions  of  delight  thronged  up  to  his 
gaze,  and  it  was  with  a  severe  pang  he  thought  of  losing 
his  hold  upon  the  dear  domains  of  idle  fancy, — he  had 
so  revelled  for  hours  and  hours,  in  intoxicating  dreams, 


THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE.  241 

which  shut  out  the  world  and  stern  duty.  He  felt  his 
weakness,  but  he  resolutely  turned  from  dwelling  upon  it. 
The  evening  air  was  refreshing  after  the  warm  sun- 
set,  but  old  Mr.  Monmouth  would  not  trust  himself  to 
bear  it.  Alfred  went  into  the  house  with  him,  and  made 
a  brief  call,  then  left,  and  wended  his  way  a  short  dis 
tance  to  his  own  home,  which  was  a  very  elegant  man 
sion,  surrounded  by  every  mark  of  luxury  and  taste. 
He  immediately  sought  his  chamber,  and  took  up  a 
neglected  Bible  which  his  mother  had  given  him  when  a 
child,— he  turned  over  its  leaves,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  one  hundred  and  nineteenth  psalm,  "  Thy  word  is  a 
lamp  unto  my  feet,  and  a  light  upon  my  path.  I  have 
sworn,  and  I  will  perform  it,  that  I  will  keep  thy 
righteous  judgments."  He  read  on,  and  the  exceeding 
beauty  and  touching  power  of  the  Holy  Word  had  never 
so  deeply  affected  him, — he  wept,  and  all  that  was  harsh 
in  his  nature  melted, — he  prayed,  and  the  angels  of 
God  approached,  filling  his  uplifted  soul  with  heavenly 
strength.  Sweet  was  the  thrill  of  thanksgiving,  that 
arose  from  that  hitherto  restless  spirit — quiet  and  blest 
the  peace  tttat  hushed  him  to  deep,  invigorating  slumber. 
Persons  of  an  enthusiastic  temperament  are  apt  to  fall 
into  extremes ;  such  was  the  case  with  Alfred  Monmouth. 
He  so  feared  that  he  would  fall  back  into  his  former 
states  of  feeling,  that  he  guarded  himself  like  an  ancho 
rite.  For  'three  months  he  abstained  from  going  into 
company,  and  even  reasonable  enjoyment  he  deprived 
himseif  of.  He  threw  aside  all  books  but  scientific  and 
religious  ones;  even  poetry  he  shut  his  ears  against, 
lest  it  might  beguile  him  again  to  his  dreamy,  but  selfish 
16 


242  THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE. 

musings.  No  doubt  this  severe  discipline  was  very  use 
ful  to  him  at  the  time,  in  strengthening  him  against  the 
besetting  faults  of  his  character ;  but  it  could  not  last 
long,  without  originating  other  errors.  During  this 
time  he  had  been,  perhaps,  as  happy  as  ever  in  his  life ; 
his  mind  had  been  fixed  upon  an  object,  and  a  wealth  of 
new  thoughts  had  crowded  upon  him — he  rejoiced  with 
a  kind  of  proud  humility  in  his  capability  for  self-govern 
ment.  He  thought  he  was  rapidly  verging  towards  per 
fection.  But  "a  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  his 
dream"  at  last,  and  an  unwonted  melancholy  grew  upon 
him,  until  it  settled  like  a  pall  over  his  heart.  An 
apathy  in  regard  to  what  had  so  lately  interested  him, 
stole  over  him,  and  indeed  a  cold  glance  fell  upon  almost 
every  pursuit  he  had  once  prized.  Plunged  in  deep 
gloom,  he  one  evening  sought  his  grandfather's  dwelling, 
hoping,  by  a  conversation  with  the  cheerful  old  man,  to 
regain  a  more  healthy  state  of  mind ;  to  his  great  satis 
faction,  Alfred  found  him  alone  reading. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  I  am  glad  you  have  come  in !"  was 
the  salutation,  with  a  most  cordial  smile,  for  Mr.  Mon- 
mouth  had  silently  remarked  the  late  alteration  in  his 
somewhat  reckless  grandson.  He  also  detected  the 
present  gloom  upon  his  fine  countenance,  and  the  earnest 
hope  of  dispelling  it,  added  an  affectionate  heartiness  to 
fyia  manner.  Alfred  made  several  common-place  re 
marks,  then,  with  his  usual  impatience,  he  flung  aside 
all  preamble,  and  said, 

"I  am  gloomy,  grandfather,  even  more  so  than  I 
have  ever  been,  and  I  cannot  explain  it.  The  last  serious 
conversation  I  had  with  you,  produced  a  strong  effect 


THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE. 

upon  me,  and  for  a  long  time  after  I  was  unusually 
cheerful  and  vigorous  in  mind.  I  seemed  to  have  im 
bibed  something  of  your  spirit — I  delighted  in  the  hope 
of  regenerating  myself,  through  the  aid  of  Heaven ;  it 
seemed  as  if  angels  hushed  my  restless  spirit  to  repose, 
and  I  tried  in  humility  to  draw  near  my  God.  Yet  I 
feared  for  myself,  and  I  withdrew  from  temptation,  from 
all  society  which  was  uncongenial  to  my  state  of  mind. 
I  was  content  for  a  long  time,  but  now  the  sadness  of 
apathy  overwhelms  me." 

"Endeavour,  without  murmuring,  to  bear  this  state 
of  mind,  and  it  will  soon  pass  off,"  remarked  Mr.  Mon- 
mouth.  "  We  must  not  always  fly  from  temptation  in 
every  form,  my  boy,  but  we  must  arm  ourselves  against 
its  attacks,  otherwise  our  usefulness  will  be  greatly 
lessened.  If  those  who  are  endeavouring  to  make  them 
selves  better,  do  so  by  shunning  society,  they  are  rather 
examples  of  selfishness  than  benevolent  goodness, — the 
selfishness  is  unconscious,  and  such  a  course  may  be  fol 
lowed  from  a  sense  of  duty.  But  the  glance  which  dis 
covered  this  to  be  duty  was  not  wide  enough ;  it  took  in 
only  the  claims  of  self,  yet  I  would  not  convey  the  idea 
that  we  have  any  one's  evils  to  take  care  of  but  our  own. 
We  need  society,  and,  however  humble  we  may  be, 
society  needs  us.  We  need  to  be  refreshed  by  the 
strength  of  good  beings,  and  we  must  also  contribute  our 
slight  share  to  those  whom  Providence  wills  that  we  may 
benefit.  The  life  of  heaven  may  thus  circulate  freely, 
and  increase  in  power  among  many  hearts.  Go  forward, 
Alfred,  unmindful  of  your  feelings,  and  pray  only  to 


244  THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE. 

trust  in  Providence,  and  to  gain  a  deep  desire  for  use 
fulness." 

"Ah!  yes,"  returned  the  young  man,  earnestly. 
Light  broke  in  upon  his  darkness.  "  I  am  glad  that  I 
have  spoken  with  you,  grandfather,  for  your  words  give 
me  strength  to  persevere.  I  never  knew  that  I  was 
weak  until  lately." 

"  Such  knowledge  is  precious,  my  dear  son.  We  are 
indeed  strongest  when  the  hand  of  humility  removes  the 
veil  that  hides  us  from  ourselves." 

"  Probably  such  is  the  case,  but  I  cannot  realize  it. 
It  is  with  effort  that  I  drag  through  the  day ;  I  am  con 
tinually  looking  towards  the  future,  and  beholding  a 
thousand  perplexing  situations  where  my  besetting  sins 
will  be  called  into  action.  I  see  myself  incapable  of 
always  following  out  the  noble  principles  I  have  lately 
adopted." 

"  As  thy  day  is,  so  shall  thy  strength  be  !"  said  Mr. 
Monmouth.  "  Be  careful  only  to  guard  yourself  against 
each  little  stumbling-block  as  it  presents  itself,  and  your 
mountains  will  be  changed  to  mole-hills.  Never  fear  for 
the  future,  do  as  well  as  you  can  in  the  present." 

"  But  it  is  so  singular  that  I  should  feel  thus,  when  I 
have  been  trying  as  hard  as  a  mortal  could  to  change 
my  erroneous  views,  and  to  regard  all  the  dispensations 
of  Providence  with  a  resigned  heart.  I  have  cast  the 
selfish  thought  of  my  own  earthly  happiness  from  my 
mind  as  much  as  possible." 

"And  yet  there  is  a  repining  in  your  gloominess. 
You  are  not  satisfied  to  bear  it." 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.     I  am  wrong, — I  think  that  I 


THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE.  245 

could  submit  with  true  fortitude  to  an  outward  trial,  but 
there  seems  so  little  reason  in  my  low  spirits.  Have 
you  ever  felt  so,  grandfather  ?" 

"  Often ;  and  at  such  times,  I  devote  myself  more 
earnestly  than  ever  to  anything  which  will  take  my 
thoughts  from  myself." 

"  I  will  do  so  !"  replied  Alfred,  firmly.  "  If  my  pur 
poses  are  right  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  I  will  be  sup 
ported." 

"  True,  my  son." 

Alfred  left  the  home  of  his  grandsirejimore  at  rest 
with  himself  and  all  the  world.  Fresh  peaceful  hopes 
again  sprang  up  within  him,  and  he  began  to  see  his  way 
clear.  He  reasoned  himself  into  resignation,  and,  as 
day  after  day  went  on,  he  grew  grateful  for  the  privilege 
and  opportunity  offered  to  school  his  rebellious  spirit  to 
order. 

Four  years  passed ;  Alfred  was  engaged  in  the  busy 
world,  and  he  shrunk  not  from  it,  but  rather  sought  to 
do  his  duty  in  it.  One  summer  evening,  he  was  called 
to  enter  the  large,  old-fashioned  house  of  his  grand 
father.  His  brow  was  thoughtful,  but  calm  and  resigned 
— he  sought  a  quiet  room ;  it  was  the  chamber  of  death, 
— yet  was  its  stillness  beautiful  and  peaceful ;  he  knelt 
by  a  dying  couch,  and  clasped  the  hand  of  his  aged 
grandsire — then  he  wept,  but  the  unbidden  tears  were 
those  of  gratitude.  The  serenity  of  heaven  was  upon  the 
countenance  of  the  noble  old  man. 

"  My  hour  has  come,  Alfred,"  he  said,  placing  one 
hand  upon  the  beloved  head  bowed  before  him,  "  and  I 
go  hence  with  thankfulness.  Ah !  even  now,  there  is  a 


246  THE  GRANDFATHER'S  ADVICE. 

heavenly  content  in  my  bosom.  The  angels  are  bend 
ing  over  me,  and  wait  to  take  my  spirit  to  its  home : 
there  is  no  mist  before  my  sight,  all  is  clear.  The 
Father  of  love  lifts  up  my  soul  in  this  hour — our  parting 
will  be  short,  my  son — "  the  old  man's  voice  trembled, 
an  infinite  tenderness  dwelt  in  his  eyes,  and  Alfred  felt 
that  there  was  a  reality  in  the  peace  of  the  dying  one. 
All  the  good  that  he  had  done  him  rushed  before  him, 
and  he  exclaimed  with  humility, 

"  How  can  I  ever  repay  you,  dear  grandfather !  for 
all  your  noble  iessons  to  me  ?" 

"I  am  repaid,"  was  the  the  lowreply;  "they  have 
brought  forth  fruit,  and  I  have  lived  to  see  it.  I  trust 
that  you  will  leave  the  world  with  all  the  peace  that  I 
do,  and  with  deeper  goodness  in  your  spirit.  My  bless 
ing  be  upon  you,  my  son  !" 

"  Amen !"  came  low  from  Alfred's  fervent  lips. 

The  eyes  of  the  aged  one  closed  in  death,  and  his 
young  disciple  went  forth  again  into  the  world,  made 
better  by  the  scene  b">  b»l  witnessed. 


A  HYMN  OF  PRAISE. 

I  BLESS  Thee  for  the  sunshine  on  the  hills, 

For  Heaven's  own  dewdrops  in  the  vales  below, 
For  rain,  the  parent  cloud  alike  distils, 

On  the  fond  bridegroom's  joy — the  mourner's  woe! 
And  for  the  viewless  wind,  that  gently  blows 

Where'er  it  listeth,  over  field  and  flood, 
Whence  coming,  whither  going,  no  man  knows, 

Yet  moved  in  secret  at  Thy  will,  Oh,  God ! 
E'en  now  it  lifts  a  ring  of  shining  hair 

From  off  the  brow  close  to  my  bosom  pressed-* 
The  loving  angels  scarce  have  brows  more  fair 

Than  this,  that  looks  so  peaceful  in  its  rest : — 
We  bless  Thee,  Father,  for  our  darling  child, 
Oh,  like  Thine  angels  make  her,  innocent  and  mild  ! 

I  rise  and  bless  Thee,  for  the  morning  hours ; 

Refreshed  and  gladdened  by  a  timely  rest, 
When  thoughts  like  bees,  rove  out  among  the  flowers, 

Still  gathering  honey  where  they  find  the  best : 
And  for  the  gentle  influence  of  the  night, 

Oh,  Heavenly  Father !  do  we  bend  the  knee, 
That  shuts  the  curtains  of  our  mortal  sight, 

Yet  leaves  the  mind,  with  range  and  vision  free, 
For  dreams  I  the  solemn,  weird,  and  strange  that  come 

And  bear  the  soul  to  an  elysian  clime, — 
Unveiling  splendours  of  that  better  home, 

Where  angels  minister  to  sons  of  time  ! 
For  all  Thy  blessings  that  with  sleep  descend, 
Our  hearts  shall  praise  Thee,  God,  our  Father  and  our  Friend ! 


AN  ANGEL  IN  EVERY  HOUSE. 

IT  is  a  trite  saying,  and  an  unique  one,  that  there  is 
"  a  skeleton  in  every  house."  That  every  form  however 
erect,  that  every  face  however  smiling,  covers  some 
secret  malady  of  mind  that  no  physician  can  cure.  This 
may  be  true,  and  undoubtedly  is ;  but  we  contend  that, 
as  everything  has  its  opposite,  there  is  also  an  angel  in 
every  house.  No  matter  how  fallen  the  inmates,  how 
depressing  their  circumstances,  there  is  an  angel  there 
to  pity  or  to  cheer.  It  may  be  in  the  presence  of  a 
little  child ;  or  it  may  be  enclosed  in  a  stooping  or 
wrinkled  body,  treading  the  downward  path  to  the  grave. 
Or,  perhaps,  in  a  cheerful  spirit,  looking  upon  the  ills 
of  life  as  so  many  steps  toward  heaven,  if  only  bravely 
overcome,  and  mounted  with  sinless  feet. 

We  knew  such  an  angel  once,  and  it  was  a  drunkard's 
child.  On  every  side  wherever  she  moved  she  saw  only 
misery  and  degradation,  and  yet  she  did  not  fall.  Her 
father  was  brutal,  and  her  mother  discouraged,  and  her 
home  thoroughly  comfortless.  But  she  struggled  along 
with  angel  endurance,  bearing  with  an  almost  saintly 
patience  the  infirmities  of  him  who  gave  her  existence, 
and  then  hourly  embittered  it.  Night  after  night,  at 
the  hours  of  ten,  twelve,  and  even  one,  barefoot,  ragged, 
shawlless,  and  bonnetless,  has  she  been  to  the  den  of  the 
drunkard,  and  gone  staggering  home  with  her  arm  around 
her  father.  Many  a  time  has  her  flesh  been  blue  with 


AN   ANGEL   IN   EVERY   HOUSE.  249 

the  mark  of  his  hand  when  she  has  stepped  in  between 
her  helpless  mother  and  violence.  Many  a  time  has  she 
sat  upon  the  cold  curbstone  with  his  head  in  her  lap ; 
many  a  time  known  how  bitter  it  was  to  cry  for  hunger, 
when  the  money  that  should  have  bought  bread  was  spent 
for  rum. 

And  the  patience  that  the  angel  wrought  with  made 
her  young  face  shine,  so  that,  though  never  acknowledged 
in  the  courts  of  this  world,  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
she  was  waited  for  by  assembled  hosts  of  spirits,  and 
the  crown  of  martyrdom  ready,  lay  waiting  for  her 
young  brow. 

And  she  was  a  martyr.  Her  gentle  spirit  went  up 
from  a  couch  of  anguish — anguish  brought  on  by  ill- 
usage  and  neglect.  And  never  till  then  did  the  father 
recognise  the  angel  in  the  child ;  never  till  then  did  his 
manhood  arise  from  the  dust  of  its  dishonour.  From  her 
humble  grave,  he  went  away  to  steep  his  resolves  for  the 
better  in  bitter  fears ;  and  he  will  tell  you  to-day,  how 
the  memory  of  her  much-enduring  life  keeps  him  from 
the  bowl :  how  he  goes  sometimes  and  stands  where  her 
patient  hands  have  held  him,  while  her  cheek  crimsoned 
at  the  sneers  of  those  who  scoffed  at  the  drunkard's 
child. 

Search  for  the  angels  in  your  households,  and  cherish 
them  while  they  are  among  you.  It  may  be  that  all 
unconsciously  you  frown  upon  them,  when  a  smile  would 
lead  you  to  a  knowledge  of  their  exceeding  worth.  They 
may  be  among  the  least  cared  for,  most  despised ;  but 
when  they  are  gone  with  their  silent  influence,  then  will 
you  mourn  for  them  as  for  a  jewel  of  great  worth. 


ANNIE. 

THE  grave  is  Heaven's  gate,  they  say ; 
And  when  dear  Annie  passed  away, 

One  calm  June  morning, 
I  saw  upon  the  heavenly  stairs, 
A  band  of  angels,  unawares, 
Her  path  adorning. 

The  grave  is  Heaven's  gate,  they  say ; 
And  when  dear  Annie  passed  away, 

A  music  flowing 

Filled  my  sad  soul  with  love  and  light, 
That  made  me  seem,  by  day  and  night, 

To  Heaven  going. 

The  grave  is  Heaven's  gate,  they  say  ; 
And  when  dear  Annie  passed  away, 

A  saintly  whiteness 
O'erspread  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
And  filled  it  with  the  tender  grace 
Of  angel  brightness. 

The  grave  is  Heaven's  gate,  they  say ; 
And  when  dear  Annie  passed  away, 

An  angel  splendid 
Cast  his  large  glories  to  the  ground, 
While  waves  of  throbbing  music-sound 

In  sweetness  blended. 

The  grave  is  Heaven's  gate",  they  say ; 
And  when  dear  Annie  passed  away, 

In  holy  sweetness — 

When  life's  sad  dream  with  her  was  o'er, 
Her  white  soul  stood  at  Heaven's  door, 

In  its  completeness. 


MOTHER. 

WHEN  she  changed  worlds,  and  before  the  time,  what 
was  she  to  others  ?  A  small,  old,  delicate  woman.  What 
was  she  to  us  ?  A  radiant,  smiling  angel,  upon  whose 
brow  the  sunshine  of  the  eternal  world  had  fallen.  "We 
looked  into  her  large,  tender  eyes,  and  saw  not  as  others 
did,  that  her  mortal  garment  had  waxed  old  and  feeble ; 
or  if  we  saw  this,  it  was  no  symbol  of  decay,  for  beyond 
and  within,  we  recognised  her  in  all  her  beauty.  Oh ! 
how  heavy  and  bitter  would  have  been  her  long  and  slow 
decline,  if  we  had  seen  her  grow  old  instead  of  young ! 
The  days  that  hastened  to  give  her  birth  into  eternity, 
grew  brighter  and  brighter,  until  when  memory  wandered 
back,  it  had  no  experiences  so  sweet  as  those  through 
which  she  was  passing.  The  long  life,  with  its  youthful 
romance,  its  prosaic  cares,  its  quiet  sunshine,  and  deep 
tragedies,  was  culminating  to  its  earthly  close ;  and,  like 
some  blessed  story  that  appeals  to  the  heart  in  its  great 
pathos,  the  end  was  drawing  near,  all  clouds  were  rolling 
away,  and  she  was  stepping  forth  into  the  brilliance 
of  prosperity.  Selfishness  ceased  to  weep  under  the 
light  of  her  cheerful  glance,  and  grew  to  be  congratula 
tion.  Beside  her  couch  we  sat,  and  traced  with  loving 
fancy  the  new  life  soon  to  open  before  her ;  with  tears 
and  smiles  we  traced  it.  Doubts  never  mingled,  for  from 
earliest  childhood  we  had  no  memories  of  her  inconsist 
ent  with  the  expectations  of  a  Christian.  Deep  in  our 
souls  there  lay  gratitude  that  her  morning  drew  near ; 


362  MOTHER. 

beautiful  and  amazing  it  seemed  that  she  would  never 
more  bow  to  the  stroke  of  the  chastener ;  fresh  courage 
descended  from  on  high,  as  we  realized  that  there  was 
an  end  to  suffering ;  it  was  difficult  to  credit  that  her 
discipline  was  nearly  over  ;  how  brief  it  had  been,  com 
pared  with  the  glorious  existence  it  had  won  her.  How 
passing  sweet  were  her  assurances  that  she  should  leave 
us  awhile  longer  on  earth  with  childlike  trust,  knowing 
that  our  own  souls  needed  to  stay,  and  that  the  destiny 
of  others  needed  it !  But  the  future  seemed  very  near 
to  her,  and  she  saw  us  gathered  around  her  in  her  ever 
lasting  home.  She  grew  weaker,  and  said  her  last  words 
to  us.  Throughout  the  last  day  she  said  but  little,  but 
often  her  tender  eyes  were  riveted  upon  us ;  they  said 
"  Farewell !  farewell !"  In  the  hush  of  the  chamber,  a 
faint,  eolian-like  strain  came  from  her  dying  lips ;  it 
sounded  as  if  it  came  from  afar ;  then  the  angels  were  tak 
ing  her  to  their  companionship.  She  softly  fell  asleep, 
resigning  her  worn-out  body  to  us,  and  she  entered  hea 
ven.  Ah  !  do  we  apprehend  what  a  glorious  event  it  is 
for  the  "pure  in  heart"  to  die?  We  look  upon  the 
bride's  beauty,  and  see  in  the  vista  before  her,  anguish 
and  tears,  and  but  transient  sunshine.  The  beauty  fades, 
the  splendour  of  life  declines  to  the  worldly  eyes  that 
gaze  upon  her.  Deaf  and  blind  are  such  gazers,  for  the 
bride  may  daily  be  winning  imperishable  beauty,  yet  it 
is  not  for  this  world.  A  most  sad  and  melancholy  thing 
it  seems  when  children  of  a  larger  growth  judge  their 
parents  by  their  frail  and  decaying  bodies,  rather  than 
by  their  spirits.  And  more  deeply  sad  still  is  it,  when 
the  aged  learn  through  the  young  to  feel  that  the  fresh- 


GREAT   PRINCIPLES   AND   SMALL  DUTIES.  253 

ness  of  existence  has  gone  by  with  them.  Gone  by  ? 
when  they  are  waiting  to  be  born  into  a  new  and  vast 
existence  that  shall  roll  on  in  increasing  majesty,  and 
never  reach  an  end  !  Gone  by  ?  when  they  have  just 
entered  life,  as  it  were  !  The  glory  and  sweetness  of 
living  is  going  by  only  with  those  who  are  turning  away 
their  faces  from  the  Prince  of  Peace.  Sweet  mother ! 
she  is  breathing  vernal  airs  now,  and  with  every  breath 
a  spring-like  life  and  joy  are  wafted  through  her  being. 
Mother  beautiful  and  beloved  !  some  sweet,  embryo  joy 
fills  the  chambers  of  my  heart  as  I  contemplate  the 
scenes  with  which  she  is  becoming  familiar.  Dead  and 
dreary  winter  robes  the  earth,  and  autumn  leaves  lie 
under  the  snow  like  past  hopes ;  but  what  of  them  ?  I 
see  only  the  smile  of  God's  sunshine.  I  see  in  the  ad 
vancing  future,  love  and  peace — only  infinite  peace ! 


GREAT  PRINCIPLES  AND  SMALL  DUTIES. 

IT  is  observable  that  the  trivial  services  of  social  life 
are  best  performed,  and  the  lesser  particles  of  domestic 
happiness  are  most  skilfully  organized,  by  the  deepest 
and  the  fairest  heart.  It  is  an  error  to  suppose  that 
homely  minds  are  the  best  administrators  of  small  duties. 
Who  does  not  know  how  wretched  a  contradiction  such 
a  rule  receives  in  the  moral  economy  of  many  a  home  ? 
how  often  the  daily  troubles,  the  swarm  of  blessed  cares, 
the  innumerable  minutiae  of  arrangement  in  a  family, 
prove  quite  too  much  for  the  generalship  of  feeble  minds, 


254  GREAT  PRINCIPLES   AND   SMALL  DUTIES. 

and  even  the  clever  selfishness  of  strong  ones ;  how  a 
petty  and  scrupulous  anxiety  in  defending  with  infinite 
perseverance  some  small  and  almost  invisible  point  of 
frugality  and  comfort,  surrenders  the  greater  unobserved, 
and  while  saving  money,  ruins  minds ;  how,  on  the  other 
hand,  a  rough  and  unmellowed  sagacity  rules  indeed, 
and  without  defeat,  but  while  maintaining  in  action  the 
mechanism  of  government,  creates  a  constant  and  in 
tolerable  friction,  a  gathering  together  of  reluctant  wills, 
a  groaning  under  the  consciousness  of  force,  that  make 
the  movements  of  life  fret  and  chafe  incessantly  ?  But 
where,  in  the  presiding  genius  of  a  home,  taste  and 
sympathy  unite  (and  in  their  genuine  forms  they  cannot 
be  separated) — the  intelligent  feeling  for  moral  beauty, 
and  the  deep  heart  of  domestic  love, — with  what  ease, 
what  mastery,  what  graceful  disposition,  do  the  seeming 
trivialities  of  life  fall  into  order,  and  drop  a  blessing  as 
they  take  their  place !  how  do  the  hours  steal  away, 
unnoticed  but  by  the  precious  fruits  they  leave !  and  by 
the  self-renunciation  of  affection,  there  comes  a  spon 
taneous  adjustment  of  various  wills ;  and  not  an  innocent 
pleasure  is  lost,  not  a  pure  taste  offended,  nor  a  peculiar 
temper  unconsidered ;  and  every  day  has  its  silent 
achievements  of  wisdom,  and  every  night  its  retrospect 
of  piety  and  love ;  and  the  tranquil  thoughts,  that  in  the 
evening  meditation  come  down  with  the  starlight,  seem 
like  the  serenade  of  angels,  bringing  in  melody  the  peace 
of  God  i  Wherever  this  picture  is  realized,  it  is  not  by 
microscopic  solicitude  of  spirit,  but  by  comprehension 
of  mind,  and  enlargement  of  heart;  by  that  breadth 
and  nicety  of  moral  view  which  discerns  everything  in 


GREAT   PRINCIPLES  AND   SMALL  DUTIES.  255 

due  proportion,  and,  in  avoiding  an  intense  elaboration 
of  trifles,  has  energy  to  spare  for  what  is  great ;  in  short, 
by  a  perception  akin  to  that  of  God,  whose  providing 
frugality  is  on  an  infinite  scale,  vigilant  alike  in  heaven 
and  on  earth ;  whose  art  colours  a  universe  with  beauty, 
and  touches  with  its  pencil  the  petals  of  a  flower.  A 
soul  thus  pure  and  large  disowns  the  paltry  rules  of 
dignity,  the  silly  notions  of  great  and  mean,  by  which 
fashion  distorts  God's  real  proportions;  is  utterly  de 
livered  from  the  spirit  of  contempt ;  and,  in  consulting 
for  the  benign  administration  of  life,  will  learn  many  a 
truth,  and  discharge  many  an  office,  from  which  lesser 
beings,  esteeming  themselves  greater,  would  shrink  from 
as  ignoble.  But  in  truth,  nothing  is  degrading  which  a 
high  and  graceful  purpose  ennobles ;  and  offices  the  most 
menial  cease  to  be  menial,  the  moment  they  are  wrought 
in  love.  What  thousand  services  are  rendered,  ay,  and 
by  delicate  hands,  around  the  bed  of  sickness,  which, 
else  considered  mean,  become  at  once  holy  and  quite 
inalienable  rights  !  To  smooth  the  pillow,  to  profier  the 
draught,  to  soothe  or  obey  the  fancies  of  the  delirious 
will,  to  sit  for  hours  as  the  mere  sentinel  of  the  feverish 
sleep ;  these  things  are  suddenly  erected,  by  their  relation 
to  hope  and  life,  into  sacred  privileges.  And  experience 
is  perpetually  bringing  occasions,  similar  in  kind,  though 
of  less  persuasive  poignancy,  when  a  true  eye  and  a 
lovely  heart  will  quickly  see  the  relations  of  things 
thrown  into  a  new  position,  and  calling  for  a  sacrifice 
of  conventional  order  to  the  higher  laws  of  the  affections ; 
and  alike  without  condescension  and  without  ostentation, 
will  noiselessly  take  the  post  of  service  and  do  the  kindly 


256  "OF   SUCH   IS  THE    KINGDOM   OF   HEAVEN." 

deed.  Thus  it  is  that  the  lesser  graces  display  them 
selves  most  richly,  like  the  leaves  and  flowers  of  life, 
where  there  is  the  deepest  and  the  widest  root  of  love ; 
not  like  the  staring  and  artificial  blossoms  of  dry  custom 
that,  winter  or  summer,  cannot  change ;  but  living  petals 
woven  in  Nature's  workshop  and  folded  by  her  tender 
skill,  opening  and  shutting  morning  and  night,  glancing 
and  trembling  in  the  sunshine  and  in  the  breeze.  This 
easy  capacity  of  great  affections  for  small  duties  is  the 
peculiar  triumph  of  the  highest  spirit  of  love. 


"OF  SUCH  IS  THE  KINGDOM  OF  HEAVEN.' 

How  quietly  she  lies  I 

Closed  are  the  lustrous  eyes, 

Whose  fringed  lids,  so  meek, 

Rest  on  the  placid  cheek ; 

While,  round  the  forehead  fair, 

Twines  the  light  golden  hair, 

Clinging  with  wondrous  grace 

Unto  the  cherub  face. 

Tread  softly  near  her,  dear  ones  1    Let  her  sleep, — 

I  would  not  have  my  darling  wake  to  weep. 

Mark  how  her  head  doth  rest 

Upon  her  snowy  breast, 

While,  'neath  the  shadow  of  a  drooping  curl, 

One  little  shoulder  nestles  like  a  pearl, 

And  the  small  waxen  fingers,  careless,  clasp 

White  odorous  flowers  in  their  tiny  grasp  ; 

Blossoms  most  sweet 

Crown  her  pure  brow,  and  cluster  o'er  her  feet. 


"OF   SUCH  IS  THE  KINGDOM   OP  HEAVEN."  257 

Sure  earth  hath  never  known  a  thing  more  fair 
Than  she  who  gently,  calmly,  slumbers  there. 

Alas  1  'tis  Death,  not  sleep, 

That  girds  her  in  its  frozen  slumbers  deep. 

No  balmy  breath  comes  forth 

From  the  slight-parted  mouth ; 

Nor  heaves  the  little  breast, 

In  its  unyielding  rest ; 

Dead  fingers  clasp 

Flowers  in  unconscious  grasp ; — 

Woe,  woe  is  me,  oh !  lone,  bereaved  mother ! 

'Tis  Death  that  hath  my  treasure,  and  none  other. 

No  more  I  hear  the  voice, 

Whose  loving  accents  made  my  heart  rejoice ; 

No  more  within  my  arms 

Fold  I  her  rosy  charms. 

And,  gazing  down  into  the  liquid  splendour 

Of  the  brown  eyes  serenely,  softly  tender, 

Print  rapturous  kisses  on  the  gentle  brow, 

So  cold  and  pallid  now. 

No  more,  no  more !  repining  heart,  be  still, 

And  trust  in  Him  who  doeth  all  things  welL 

Oh,  happy  little  one ! 

How  soon  her  race  was  run, — 

Her  pain  and  suffering  o'er, 

Herself  from  sin  secure. 

Not  hers  to  wander  through  the  waste  of  years, 

Sowing  in  hope,  to  gather  nought  but  tears ; 

Nor  care,  nor  strife, 

Dimmed  her  brief  day  of  life. 

All  true  souls  cherished  her,  and  fondly  strove 

To  guard  from  every  ill  my  meek  white  dove. 

Love,  in  its  essence, 
Pervaded  her  sweet  presence. 
17 


• 
258  THE  OLD   VILLAGE   CHURCH. 

How  winning  were  her  ways ; 

Her  little  child-like  grace, 

And  the  mute  pleadings  of  her  innocent  eyes, 

Seizing  the  heart  with  sudden,  soft  surprise, 

As  if  an  angel,  unaware, 

Had  strayed  from  Heaven,  here ; 

And,  saddened  at  the  dark  and  downward  road, 

Averted  her  meek  gaze,  and  sought  her  Father,  God. 

In  her  new  spiritual  birth, 

No  garments  soiled  with  earth 

Cling  round  the  little  form,  that  happy  strays, 

Up  through  the  gates  of  pearl  and  golden  ways, 

Where  sister  spirits  meet  her, 

And  angels  joyful  greet  her.- 

Arrayed  in  robes  of  white, 

She  walks  the  paths  of  light ; 

Adorning  the  bright  city  of  our  God, 

The  glorious  realms  by  saints  and  martyrs  trod  I 


THE  OLD  VILLAGE  CHURCH. 

TWENTY  years !  Yes,  twenty  years  had  intervened 
since  I  left  the  pleasant  village  of  Brookdale,  and  not 
once  during  all  this  period  had  I  visited  the  dear  old 
spot  that  was  held  more  and  more  sacred  by  memory. 
A  hundred  times  had  I  purposed  to  do  so,  yet  not  until 
the  lapse  of  twenty  years  was  this  purpose  fulfilled. 
Then,  sobered  by  disappointments,  I  went  back  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  home  of  early  days. 

I  was  just  twenty  years  old  when  I  left  Brookdale. 
My  father's  family  removed  at  the  same  time,  and  this 


THE   OLD   VILLAGE   CHURCH.  259 

was  the  reason  why  I  had  not  returned.  The  heart's 
strongest  attractions  were  in  another  place.  But  the 
desire  to  go  back  revived,  after  a  season  of  affliction  and 
some  painful  defeats  in  the  great  battle  of  life.  The 
memory  of  dear  childhood  grew  so  palpable,  and  pro 
duced  such  an  earnest  longing  to  revisit  old  scenes, 
that  I  was  constrained  to  turn  my  face  towards  my  early 
home. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  of  a  calm  autumnal  day, 
at  the  close  of  the  week,  when  I  arrived  at  Brookdale. 
The  village  inn  where  I  stopped,  and  at  which  I  engaged 
lodgings  for  a  few  days,  was  not  the  old  village  inn. 
That  had  passed  away,  and  a  newer  and  larger  building 
stood  in  its  pla.ce.  Nor  was  the  old  landlord  there. 
Why  had  I  expected  to  see  him  ?  Twenty  years  before, 
he  was  bent  with  age.  His  eyes  were  dim  and  his  step 
faltered  when  last  I  saw  him.  It  was  but  natural  that 
he  should  pass  away.  Still,  I  felt  a  shade  of  disap 
pointment  when  the  truth  came.  He  who  filled  his  place 
was  unknown  to  me ;  and,  in  all  his  household,  not  a 
familiar  countenance  was  presented. 

But  I  solaced  myself  for  this  with  thoughts  of  the 
morrow,  when  my  eyes  would  look  upon  long-remembered 
scenes  and  faces.  The  old  homestead,  with  its  garden 
and  clambering  vines — a  picture  which  had  grown  more 
vivid  in  my  thoughts  every  year — how  earnest  was  my 
desire  to  look  upon  it  again !  There  was  the  deep,  pure 
spring,  in  which,  as  I  bent  to  drink,  I  had  so  often 
looked  upon  my  mirrored  face ;  and  the  broad,  flat  stone 
near  by,  where  I  had  sat  so  many  times.  I  would  sit 
there  again,  after  tasting  the  sweet  water,  and  think  of 


260  THE  OLD   VILLAGE  CHURCH. 

the  olden  time !  The  dear  old  mill,  too,  with  its  mur 
muring  wheel  glistening  in  the  bright  sunshine,  and 
the  race,  on  whose  bank  I  had  gathered  wild  flowers  and 
raspberries ! 

I  could  sleep  but  little  for  thinking  of  these  things, 
and  when  morning  broke,  and  the  sun  shone  out,  I  went 
forth  impatient  to  see  the  real  objects  which  had  been 
so  long  pictured  in  my  memory.  . ,  /." 

"  Am  I  in  Brookdale  ?  No — it  cannot  be.  There  is 
some  strange  error.  Yes — yes — it  is  Brookdale,  for 
here  is  the  old  church.  I  cannot  mistake  that.  Hark  ! 
Yes — yes — it  is  the  early  bell !  I  would  know  its  sound 
amid  a  thousand !" 

On  I  moved,  passing  the  ancient  building  whose 
architect  had  long  since  been  called  to  sleep  with  his 
fathers,  and  over  whose  walls  and  spire  time  had  cast  a 
duller  hue.  I  was  eager  to  reach  the  old  homestead. 
The  mill  lay  between — or,  once  it  did.  Only  a  shape 
less  ruin  now  remained.  The  broken  wheel,  the  crumbling 
walls,  and  empty  forebay  were  all  that  my  eyes  rested 
upon,  and  I  paused  sadly  to  mark  the  wreck  which  time 
had  made.  The  race  was  dry,  and  overgrown  with  elder 
and  rank  weeds.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  stood  out 
sharply  against  the  clear  sky,  a  large  factory,  newly 
built,  and  thither  the  stream  in  which  I  had  once  sailed 
my  tiny  boat,  or  dropped  my  line,  had  been  turned,  and 
the  old  mill  left  to  silence  and  decay.  Ah  me !  I  can 
not  make  words  obedient  to  my  thoughts  in  giving  utter 
ance  to  the  disappointment  I  then  felt.  A  brief  space 
I  stood,  mourning  over  the  ruins,  and  then  moved  on 
again,  a  painful  presentiment  fast  arising  in  my  heart 


THE   OLD    VILLAGE   CHURCH.  2t>l 

that  all  would  not  be  as  I  had  left  it  in  the  white  cottage 
I  was  seeking.  The  two  great  elms  that  stood  bending 
together,  as  if  instinct  with  a  sense  of  protection,  above 
that  dear  home — where  were  they  ?  My  eyes  searched 
for  them  in  vain. 

"  Where  is  the  spring?  Surely  it  welled  up  here,  and 
this  is  the  way  the  clear  stream  flowed !" 

Alas !  the  spring  was  dried,  and  scarcely  a  trace  of 
its  former  existence  remained.  The  broad  flat  stone 
was  broken.  The  shady  alcove  beneath  which  the  waters 
came  up  so  cool  and  clear,  had  been  removed.  All  was 
naked  and  barren.  Near  by  stood  an  old  deserted 
house.  The  door  was  half  open,  the  windows  were 
broken  out,  the  chimney  had  fallen,  and  great  patches 
of  the  roof  had  been  torn  away.  Around,  all  was  in 
keeping  with  this.  The  little  garden  was  covered  with 
weeds,  the  fence  that  once  enclosed  it  was  broken  down, 
the  old  apple-tree  that  I  had  loved  almost  as  tenderly  as 
if  it  had  been  a  human  creature,  was  no  more  to  be  seen, 
and  in  the  place  where  the  grape-vine  grew  was  a  deep 
pool  of  green  and  stagnant  water. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  turn  and  flee  from  the  place, 
under  a  painful  revulsion  of  feeling.  But  I  could  not 
leave  the  spot  thus.  For  some  minutes  I  stood  mourn 
fully  leaning  on  the  broken  garden  gate,  arid  then  forced 
myself  to  enter  beneath  the  roof  where  I  was  born,  and 
where  I  grew  up  with  loving  and  happy  children,  under 
the  sunlight  of  a  mother's  smile.  If  there  was  ruin 
without,  there  was  desolation  added  to  ruin  within,  but 
neither  ruin  nor  desolation  could  entirely  obliterate  the 
forms  so  well  remembered.  I  passed  from  room  to  room, 


262  THE   OLD   VILLAGE   CHURCH. 

now  pausing  to  recall  an  incident,  and  now  hurrying  on 
under  a  sense  of  pain  at  seeing  a  place,  hallowed  in  my 
thoughts  by  the  tenderest  associations  of  my  life,  thus 
abandoned  to  the  gnawing  tooth  of  decay,  and  destined  to 
certain  and  speedy  destruction.  When  I  came  to  my 
mother's  room,  emotion  grew  too  powerful,  and  a  gush 
of  tears  relieved  the  oppressive  weight  that  lay  upon  my 
bosom.  There  I  lingered  long,  with  a  kind  of  mourn 
ful  pleasure  in  this  scene  of  my  days  of  innocence,  and 
lived  over  years  of  the  bygone  times. 

At  last  I  turned  with  sad  feelings  from  a  spot  which 
memory  had  held  sacred  for  twenty  years ;  but  which, 
in  its  change,  could  be  sacred  no  longer.  Material 
things  are  called  substantial ;  but  it  is  not  so.  Change 
and  decay  are  ever  at  work  upon  them ;  they  are  unsub 
stantial.  A  real  substance  is  the  mind,  with  its  thoughts 
and  affections.  Forms  built  there  do  not  decay.  How 
perfectly  had  I  retained  in  memory  the  home  of  my 
childhood  !  Not  a  leaf  had  withered,  not  a  flower  had 
faded;  nothing  had  fallen  under  the  scythe  of  time. 
The  greenness  and  perfection  of  all  were  as  the  mind 
had  received  them  twenty  years  before.  But  the  material 
things  themselves  had,  in  that  brief  space,  passed  almost 
wholly  away.  Yes ;  it  is  in  the  mind  that  we  must  seek 
for  real  substance. 

Slowly  and  sadly  I  turned  from  the  hallowed  place, 
and  went  back  towards  the  village  inn.  No  interest  for 
anything  in  Brookdale  remained,  and  no  surprise  was 
created  at  the  almost  total  obliteration  of  the  old  land 
marks  apparent  on  every  hand.  My  purpose  was  to 
leave  the  place  by  the  early  stage  that  morning,  and 


• 

THE   OLD   VILLAGE   CHURCH.  263 

seek  to  forget  that  I  had  ever  returned  to  the  home -of 
my  childhood. 

My  way  was  past  the  old  village  church  where,  Sab 
bath  after  Sabbath,  for  nearly  fifteen  years,  I  had  met 
with  the  worshippers ;  and  as  I  drew  nearer  and  .nearer 
the  sacred  place,  I  was  more  and  more  impressed  with 
the  fact  that,  if  change  had  been  working  busily  all 
around,  his  hand  had  spared  the  holy  edifice.  That 
change  had  been  there  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  but  he 
had  lingered  only  a  moment,  laying  his  hand  gently,  as 
he  paused,  on  the  ancient  pile.  New  and  tenderer 
feelings  came  over  me.  I  could  not  pass  the  village 
church,  and  so  I  entered  it  once  more,  although  it  was 
yet  too  early  for  the  worshippers  to  assemble.  How 
familiar  all !  A  year  seemed  not  to  have  intervened 
since  I  had  stood  beneath  that  roof.  The  deep,  arched 
windows,  the  antique  pulpit  and  chancel,  the  old  gal 
lery  and  organ,  the  lofty  roof,  but  most  of  all  the  broad 
tablet  above  the  pulpit,  and  the  words  "  Reverence  my 
Sanctuary :  I  am  the  Lord,"  were  as  familiar  as  the  face 
of  a  dear  friend.  There  was  change  all  around,  but  no 
change  here  in  the  house  of  God. 

Seating  myself  in  the  old  family  pew,  I  gave  my  mind 
up  to  a  flood  of  crowding  associations ;  and  there  I  sat, 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  passing  time,  until  the  bell 
sounded  clear  above  me  its  weekly  summons  to  the  wor 
shippers.  And  soon  they  began  to  assemble,  one  after 
another  coming  in,  and  silently  taking  their  places. 
Conscious  that  I  was  intruding,  I  yet  remained  in  the 
old  family  pew.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could  not  leave  it — 
as  if  T  ipuctf  ei*  tho.re  and  hearken  once  more  to  the  words 


264  THE   OLD   VILLAGE   CHURCH. 

of  life.  And  I  was  there  when  the  rightful  owners 
came.  I  arose  to  retire,  but  was  beckoned  to  remain. 
So  I  resumed  my  seat,  thankful  for  the  privilege.  Group 
after  group  entered,  but  faces  of  strangers  were  all 
around  me.  Presently  a  white-haired  old  man  came 
slowly  along  the  aisle,  and,  entering  the  chancel,  ascended 
to  the  pulpit.  I  had  not  expected  this.  Our  minister 
was  far  advanced  in  years  when  we  left  the  village,  yet 
here  he  was  !  How  breathlessly  did  I  lean  forward  to 
catch  the  sound  of  his  voice  when  he  arose  to  read  the 
service!  It  was  the  same  impressive  voice,  yet  lower 
and  somewhat  broken.  .  My  heart  trembled,  and  tears 
dimmed  my  eyes  as  the  sound  went  echoing  through  the 
room.  For  a  time  I  was  a  child  again.  I  closed  my 
eyes,  and  felt  that  my  mother,  my  sister,  and  my  brothers 
were  with  me. 

I  can  never  forget  that  morning.  When  the  service 
closed,  and  the  people  moved  away,  I  looked  from  coun 
tenance  to  countenance,  but  all  were  strange,  except 
those  of  a  few  old  men  and  women.  Still  lingering,  I 
met  the  minister  as  he  came  slowly  down  the  aisle  to-» 
wards  the  door.  He  did  not  know  me,  for  his  eyes  were 
dim  with  age,  and  I  had  changed  in  twenty  years.  But, 
when  I  extended  my  hand  and  gave  my  name,  he  seized 
it  with  a  quick  energy,  while  a  vivid  light  irradiated  his 
countenance. 

I  will  not  weary  the  reader  with  a  detail  of  the  long 
interview  held  that  day  with  the  old  minister  in  his  own 
house.  It  was  good  for  me  that  I  met  him  ere  leaving 
Brookdale  under  the  pressure  of  a  first  disappointment. 
His  words  of  wisdom  were  yet  in  my  ears. 


"THE  WORD  is  NIGH  THEE."  265 

"As  you  have  found  the  old  church  the  same,"  said 
he,  while  holding  my  hand  in  parting,  "  amid  ruin  and 
change  everywhere  around,  so  will  you  find  the  truths 
which  are  given  for  our  salvation  ever  immutable,  though 
mere  human  inventions  of  thought  are  set  aside  by  every 
coming  generation  for  new  philosophies,  and  the  finer 
fancies  of  more  brilliant  intellects.  Religion  is  built 
upon  a  rock,  and  the  storms  and  floods  of  time  cannot 
move  it  from  its  firm  foundation." 


"THE  WORD  IS  NIGH  THEE." 

DWELL'ST  thou  with  thine  own  people  ?  are  the  joys, 

The  hopes,  the  blessings  of  "  sweet  home"  thine  own  ? 
"  The  Word  is  nigh  thee  ;"  hear  the  sacred  voice  ! 

At  morn,  bow  with  thy  loved  ones  round  the  throne ; 
At  noon-tide  read  and  pray ;  and  in  the  hour 

When  evening's  shades  close  round  thee,  let  the  truth 
Subdue  thy  heart  by  its  transforming  power ; 

That  thou,  whom  God  has  blessed,  may'st  serve  him  from  thy 
youth. 

Affection's  ties  oft  sunder  ;  and  the  home 

Of  peace  and  love,  sorrow  and  death  can  enter. 
Art  thou,  indeed,  a  mourner  ?  dost  thou  roam 

Alone  and  sad,  where  late  thy  joys  did  centre  ? 
"  The  Word  is  nigh  thee  I"  and  though  bitter  grief 

Makes  all  the  future  seem  one  day  of  sorrow, — 
Its  words  of  peace  shall  grant  thee  sweet  relief; 

The  night  of  pain  and  fear  shall  find  a  joyous  morrow 

"  The  Word  of  God  is  nigh  thee  \"  let  it  be 
The  lamp  that  o'er  thy  pathway  sheds  its  light, 


266  AUNT  RACHEL. 

Then,  through  the  mists  of  error,  thou  shalt  see 

The  way  of  truth,  all  radiant  and  bright, 
In  which  of  old  the  sons  of  God  did  go, 

Leaning  on  Him  who  was  their  friend  and  guide ; 
Nor  shall  thy  heart  be  faint,  thy  step  be  slow, 

Till  thou  in  Heaven,  thy  home,  shalt  triumph  by  their  side 

The  Word  of  God  shall  bless  thee,  in  the  hour 

When  human  hopes  and  human  friends  shall  fail : 
It  was  in  health  thy  portion,  and  its  power 

Is  mightiest  even  in  the  gloomy  vale. 
No  evil  shalt  thou  fear  while  He  is  with  thee  ; 

The  sting  of  death  his  hand  shall  take  away, 
His  rod  and  staff  shall  comfort  thee  and  cheer  thee, 

And  thou  with  Him  shalt  dwell  through  heaven's  eternal  day. 


AUNT   RACHEL. 

WE  remember  as  it  were  yesterday  the  first  time  we  saw 
her,  though  it  was  a  brief  glance,  and  she  was  so  quickly 
forgotten  that  most  of  us  had  passed  into  the  supper- 
room  and  the  rest  had  reached  the  door,  heedless  of  the 
stranger,  when  one  of  our  party,  perhaps  more  thought 
ful  than  the  others,  cast  her  eyes  on  the  quiet  little 
figure  that  stood  near  the  fire  as  if  irresolute  whether 
to  follow  or  remain.  With  lady-like  politeness  she  re 
ceived  the  excuses  which  one  of  the  gentlemen  offered 
for  having  preceded  her,  and  entered  the  room. 

She  was  very  slight,  and  thin,  and  pale,  her  eyes 
were  of  a  light  gray  and  her  hair  inclined  to  redness, 
but  her  forehead  was  broad  and  smooth,  and  about  her 


AUNT  RACHEL.  267 

thin  lips  there  hovered  an  expression  of  sweetness  and 
repose. 

We  have  forgotten  now  what  first  led  us  to  feel  that 
beneath  that  unprepossessing  exterior  were  concealed 
the  pulses  of  a  warm,  generous  heart,  and  the  powers 
of  a  strong  and  cultivated  mind,  but  we  remember  well 
the  morning  that  she  set  her  seal  upon  our  heart. 

It  was  a  clear,  cold,  brilliant  morning  in  March.  The 
whole  broad  country  was  covered  with  a  thick  crust  of 
hard,  glittering  snow,  and  every  tree  was  encased  in  ice. 
The  oaks  and  elms  and  chestnuts  and  beeches  from  their 
trunks  upward  and  outward  to  their  minutest  twigs,  and 
the  pines  and  firs  with  their  greenness  shining  through, 
sparkled  like  diamonds  and  emeralds  in  the  brightness 
of  the  sun. 

0,  it  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  we  have  seldom 
since  been  so  young  in  feeling,  as  never  we  are  sure  in 
years,  as  when  we  walked  forth  into  its  bracing  air. 

And  Aunt  Rachel — she  enjoyed  it;  the  broad  icy 
fields,  the  difficult  ascent  of  the  steep  slippery  hills  and 
the  "  duckies"  down  them,  and  the  crackling  of  the  icicles 
as  we  thrust  our  way  through  the  bristling  under-brush 
of  those  diamond-cressed  woods.  "We  loved  even  to  eat 
the  icicles  that  hung  from  the  pines  with  their  pungent 
flavour,  strong  as  though  their  pointed  leaves  had  be«n 
steeped  in  boiling  water.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  taste  as 
well  as  see  the  trees. 

As  we  entered  the  "  Main  Road"  and  were  passing 
along  by  the  "  Asylum  for  the  Insane,"  a  clear,  pleasant 
voice  from  one  of  the  cells  in  the  upper  story,  accosted 
us :  "  Good-morning,  ladies."  We  looked  up  and  bowed 


368  AUNT   RACHEL.  • 

in  reply  to  the  salutation.  "  It  is  a  beautiful  morning," 
he  continued,  "  and  I  should  like  myself  to  take  a  walk 
down  on  '  Main  Street,'  but  my  folks  have  sent  me  here 
to  be  shut  up  because  they  say  I  am  crazy,  but  I  am 
sure  I  am  not  crazy,  and  I  can't  see  why  they  should 
think  so."  And  we  thought  the  same  as  we  listened  to 
the  calm,  pleasant  tones  of  his  voice,  till  he  added,  "  It 
will  soon  make  me  beside  myself  to  be  with  this  wild, 
screaming  set ;  and  it  doesn't  do  them  any  good  either 
to  shut  them  up  here.  "What  they  want  is  the  Grace  of 
God,  and  I'll  put  the  Grace  of  God  into  them." 

His  voice  grew  wild  and  excited,  but  we  knew  that  a 
whole  volume  of  truth  had  been  uttered  in  those  simple 
words :  "  What  they  want  is  the  Grace  of  God." 

The  Grace  of  God.  How  many  has  it  saved — rescued 
— from  madness !  how  have  prayer  and  watchfulness 
been  blest  in  conquering  self,  in  subduing  rampant  pas 
sion  and  the  wild,  disorderly  vagaries  of  the  brain ! 

As  we  listen,  the  low  whispered  prayer  of  a  Hall  when 
he  felt  the  billows  of  angry  passion  about  to  sweep  over 
his  soul,  "  0,  Lamb  of  God,  calm  my  perturbed  spirit," 
we  feel  that  but  for  such  interceding  prayer  and  that 
watchfulness  which  accompanied  it,  the  insanity  to  which 
he  was  temporarily  subject  would  have  won  the  same 
mastery  over  the  mighty  powers  of  his  mind  as  over 
those  of  Swift,  and  the  glory  of  his  "wide  fame"  as 
well  as  the  peace  of  his  "humble  hope,"  would  have 
been  exchanged  for  the  vagaries  of  the  madman  or  the 
drivellings  of  the  idiot. 

The  Grace  of  God.  We  thought  of  John  Randolph, 
with  his  sway  over  the  minds  of  others,  with  a  "wit 


AUNT  RACHEL.  269 

and  eloquence  that  recalled  the  splendours  of  ancient 
oratory,"  yet  with  so  little  command  over  himself  that 
his  weak  frame  sometimes  sank  benealh  the  excitement 
of  his  temper,  and  gusts  of  passion  were  succeeded  by 
fainting-fits ;  and  when  the  one  desire  of  his  heart  was 
denied,  when  a  love  mighty  as  every  other  passion  of  his 
soul  failed  him,  his  grief,  ungovernable  and  frenzied  as 
his  rage,  overwhelmed  him,  and  the  "  taint  of  madness 
which  ran  in  his  line,"  flooded  his  brain.  But  when 
the  atheist  became  a  Christian ;  when,  in  his  own  words, 
he  felt  "  the  Spirit  of  God  was  not  the  chimera  of  heated 
brains,  nor  a  device  of  artful  men  to  frighten  and  cajole 
the  credulous,  but  an  existence  to  be  felt  and  understood 
as  the  whisperings  of  one's  own  heart ;"  his  prayer  of, 
"  Lord !  I  believe,  help  thou  my  unbelief,"  was  answered 
in  calm  and  peace  to  his  soul. 

"The  saddest  thought,"  said  Aunt  Rachel,  as  we 
turned  away  from  that  gloomy  edifice,  "the  saddest 
thought  connected  with  that  building  is,  that  so  large  a 
number  of  its  unhappy  inmates  have  brought  their  misery 
upon  themselves,  are  the  victims  of  their  own  irregular 
and  indulged  passions." 

As  we  turned  and  looked  upon  her  smooth  brow,  her 
serious  and  serene  eyes  and  her  sweet,  calm  mouth,  we 
marked  a  look  of  subdued  suffering  mingled  with  an 
expression  of  Christian  triumph ;  and  we  knew  that  she 
had  felt  "  the  ploughings  of  grief ;"  that  she  had  learned 
"  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is  to  suffer  and  grow  strong ;" 
but,  though  we  wondered  deeply,  we  never  knew  in  what 
form  she  had  been  called  "to  pass  under  the  rod;"  but 
we  heard  a  voice  that  said, 


270  COMETH   A   BLESSING   DOWN. 

"  Fear  not ;  when  thou  passest  through  the  waters,  I 
will  be  with  thee ;  and  through  the  rivers,  they  shall 
not  overflow  thee." 

Nay,  fear  not,  weak  and  fainting  soul, 
Though  the  wild  waters  round  thee  roll, 
He  will  sustain  thy  faltering  way, 
Will  be  thy  sure,  unfailing  stay. 

And  though  it  were  the  fabled  stream 
Whose  waves  were  fire  of  fearful  gleam, 
He  still  would  bear  thee  safely  through 
The  fire,  but  cleanse  thy  soul  anew. 


COMETH  A  BLESSING  DOWN. 

NOT  to  the  man  of  dollars, 

Not  to  the  man  of  deeds, 
Not  to  the  man  of  cunning, 

Not  to  the  man  of  creeds, 
Not  to  the  one  whose  passion 

Is  for  a  world's  renown, 
Not  in  a  form  of  fashion,       » 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 

Not  unto  land's  expansion, 

Not  to  the  miser's  chest, 
Not  to  the  princely  mansion, 

Not  to  the  blazoned  crest, 
Not  to  the  sordid  worldling, 

Not  to  the  knavish  clown, 
Not  to  the  haughty  tyrant, 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 


THE   DARKENED  PATHWAY.  271 

Not  to  the  folly-blinded, 

Not  to  the  steeped  in  shame, 
Not  to  the  carnal-minded, 

Not  to  unholy  fame ; 
Not  in  neglect  of  duty, 

Not  in  the  monarch's  crown, 
Not  at  the  smile  of  beauty, 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 

But  to  the  one  whose  spirit 

Yearns  for  the  great  and  good  ; 
Unto  the  one  whose  storehouse 

Yi«ldeth  the  hungry  food ; 
Unto  the  one  who  labours, 

Fearless  of  foe  or  frown ; 
Unto  the  kindly-hearted, 

Cometh  a  blessing  down. 


THE  DARKENED  PATHWAY. 

*'  To  some  the  sky  is  always  bright,  while  to  others  it 
is  never  free  from  clouds.  There  is  to  me  a  mystery  in 
this — something  that  looks  like  a  partial  Providence — 
for  those  who  grope  sadly  through  life  in  darkened  paths 
are,  so  far  as  human  judgment  can  determine,  often 
purer  and  less  selfish  than  those  who  move  gayly  along 
in  perpetual  sunshine.  Look  at  Mrs.  Adair.  It  always 
gives  me  the  heart-ache  to  think  of  what  she  has  en 
dured  in  life,  and  still  endures.  Once  she  was  surrounded 
by  all  that  wealth  could  furnish  of  external  good ;  now 
she  is  in  poverty,  with  five  children,  clinging  to  her  for 


272  THE  DARKENED   PATHWAY. 

support,  her  health  feeble,  and  few  friends  to  counsel  or 
lend  her  their  aid.  No  woman  could  have  loved  a  hus 
band  more  tenderly  than  she  loved  hers,  and  few  wives 
were  ever  more  beloved  in  return ;  but  she  has  gathered 
the  widow's  weeds  around  her,  and  is  sitting  in  the  dark 
ness  of  an  inconsolable  grief.  What  a  sweet  character 
was  hers  !  Always  loving  and  unselfish — a  very  angel 
on  the  earth  from  childhood  upwards,  and  yet  her  doom 
to  tread  this  darkened  pathway !  If  Heaven  smiles  on 
the  good — if  the  righteous  are  never  forsaken,  why  this 
strange,  hard,  harsh  Providence  in  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Adair  ?  I  cannot  understand  it !  God  is  goodness  itself, 
they  say,  and  loves  His  creatures  with  a  love  surpassing 
the  love  of  a  mother ;  but  would  any  mother  condemn 
a  beloved  child  to  such  a  cruel  fate  ?  No,  no,  no ! 
From  the  very  depths  of  my  spirit  I  answer — No  !  I 
am  only  a  weak,  erring,  selfish  creature,  but — " 

Mrs.  Endicott  checked  the  utterance  of  what  was  in 
her  thought,  for  at  the  instant  another  thought,  rebuk 
ing  her  for  an  impious  comparison  of  herself  with  her 
Maker,  flitted  across  her  mind.  Yes,  she  was  about 
drawing  a  parallel  between  herself  and  a  Being  of  infi 
nite  wisdom  and  love,  unfavourable  to  the  latter  ! 

The  sky  of  Mrs.  Endicott  had  not  always  been  free 
from  clouds.  Many  times  had  she  walked  in  darkness ; 
and  why  this  was  so  ever  appeared  as  one  of  the  myste 
ries  of  life,  for  her  self-explorations  had  never  gone  far 
enough  to  discover  those  natural  evils,  the  existence  of 
which  only  a  state  of  intense  mental  suffering  would 
manifest  to  her  deeper  consciousness.  But  all  she  had 
yet  been  called  to  endure,  was,  she  freely  acknowledged. 


THE  DARKENED  PATHWAY.  278 

light  in  comparison  to  what  poor  Mrs.  Adair  had  suf 
fered,  and  was  suffering  daily — and  the  case  of  this 
friend  gave  her  a  strong  argument  against  the  wisdom 
and  justice  of  that  Power  in  the  hands  of  which  the 
children  of  men  are  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter. 

Even  while  Mrs.  Endicott  thus  questioned  and  doubt 
ed,  a  domestic  opened  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  she 
was  sitting,  and  said, 

"  Mrs.  Adair  is  in  the  parlour." 

"  Is  she  ?     Say  that  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment." 

Mrs.  Endicott  felt  a  little  surprised  at  the  coincidence 
of  her  thought  of  her  friend  and  that  friend's  appear 
ance.  It  was  another  of  those  life-mysteries  into  which 
her  dull  eyes  could  not  penetrate,  and  gave  new  occa 
sion  for  dark  surmises  in  regard  to  the  Power  above  all, 
in  all,  and  ruling  all.  With  a  sober  face,  as  was  befit 
ting  an  interview  with  one  so  deeply  burdened  as  Mrs. 
Adair,  she  went  down  to  the  parlour. 

"  My  dear  friend !"  she  said,  tenderly,  almost  sadly, 
as  she  took  the  hand  of  her  visiter. 

Into  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Adair  she  looked  earnestly  for 
the  glittering  tear-veil,  and  upon  her  lips  for  the  grief 
curve.  To  her  surprise  neither  were  there ;  but  a  cheer 
ful  light  in  the  former  and  a  gentle  smile  on  the  latter. 

"  How  are  you  this  morning  ?" 

Mrs.  Endicott's  voice  was  low  and  sympathizing. 

"I  feel  a  little  stronger,  to-day,  thank  you,"  answer 
ed  Mrs.  Adair,  smiling  as  she  spoke. 

" How  is  your  breast?" 

"Still  very  tender." 

"  And  the  pain  in  your  side." 
18 


274  THE  DARKENED   PATHWAY. 

"  I  am  not  free  from  that  a  moment." 

Still  she  smiled  as  she  answered.  There  was  not  even 
a  touch  of  sadness  or  despondency  in  her  voice. 

"  Not  free  a  moment !    How  do  you  bear  it  ?" 

"  Happily — as  I  often  say  to  myself — I  have  no  time 
to  think  about  the  pain,"  replied  Mrs.  Adair,  cheerfully. 
"  It  is  wonderful  how  mental  activity  lifts  us  above  the 
consciousness  of  bodily  suffering.  For  my  part,  I  am 
sure  that  if  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  down  and 
brood  over  my  ailments,  I  would  be  one  of  the  most 
miserable,  complaining  creatures  alive.  But  a  kind  Pro 
vidence,  even  in  the  sending  of  poverty  to  his  afflicted 
one,  has  but  tempered  the  winds  to  the  shorn  lamb." 

Mrs.  Endicott  was  astonished  to  hear  these  words, 
falling,  as  they  did,  with  such  a  confiding  earnestness 
from  the  pale  lips  of  her  much-enduring  friend. 

"  How  can  you  speak  so  cheerfully  ?"  she  said.  "  How 
can  you  feel  so  thankful  to  Him  who  has  shrouded  your 
sky  in  darkness,  and  left  you  to  grope  in  strange  paths, 
on  which  falls  not  a  single  ray  of  light?" 

"  Even  though  the  sky  is  clouded,"  was  answered,  "  1 
know  that  the  sun  is  shining  there  as  clear  and  as  beau 
tiful  as  ever.  The  paths  in  which  a  wise  and  good  Pro 
vidence  has  called  me  to  walk,  may  be  strange,  and  are, 
at  times,  rough  and  toilsome  ;  but  you  err  in  saying  that 
no  light  falls  upon  them." 

"  But  the  sky  is  dark — whence  comes  the  light,  Mrs. 
Adair?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  beautiful  hymn  written  by 
Moore  ?  It  is  to  me  worth  all  he  ever  penned  besides. 
How  often  do  I  say  it  over  to  myself,  lingering  with  a 


THE  DARKENED   PATHWAY.  275 

warming  heart  and  a  quickening  pulse,  on  every  word 
of  consolation !" 

And  in  the  glow  of  her  fine  enthusiasm,  Mrs.  Adair 
repeated — 

"  Oh,  Thou,  who  dry'st  the  mourner's  tear, 

How  dark  this  world  would  be, 
If,  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 

We  could  not  fly  to  Thee ! 
The  friends,  who  in  our  sunshine  live, 

When  winter  comes,  are  flown ; 
And  he  who  has  but  tears  to  give, 

Must  weep  those  tears  alone. 
But  Thou  wilt  heal  that  broken  heart, 

Which,  like  the  plants  that  throw 
Their  fragrance  from  the  wounded  part, 

Breathes  sweetness  out  of  woe. 

"  When  joy  no  longer  soothes  or  cheers, 

And  e'en  the  hope  that  threw 
A  moment's  sparkle  o'er  our  tears 

Is  dimmed  and  vanished,  too, 
Oh,  who  would  bear  life's  stormy  doom, 

Did  not  Thy  wing  of  Love 
Come,  brightly  wafting  through  the  gloom 

Our  Peace-branch  from  above  ? 
Then  sorrow,  touched  by  Thee,  grows  bright 

With  more  than  rapture's  ray ; 
As  darkness  shows  us  worlds  of  light 

We  never  saw  by  day." 

"None,"  said  Mrs.  Adair,  "but  those  who  have  had 
the  sky  of  their  earthly  affections  shrouded  in  darkness, 
can  fully  understand  the  closing  words  of  this  consola 
tory  hymn.  Need  I  now  answer  your  question,  *  Whence 
comes  the  light  ?'  There  is  an  inner  world,  Mrs.  Endi- 


276  THE   DARKENED   PATHWAY. 

cott — a  world  full  of  light,  and  joy,  and  consolation — a 
world  whose  sky  is  never  darkened,  whose  sun  is  never 
hidden  by  clouds.  When  we  turn  from  all  in  this  life 
that  we  vainly  trusted,  and  lift  our  eyes  upward  towards 
the  sky,  bending  over  our  sad  spirits,  an  unexpected 
light  breaks  in  upon  us,  and  we  see  a  new  firmament, 
glittering  with  myriads  of  stars,  whose  light  is  fed  from 
that  inner  world  where  the  sun  shines  for  ever  undim- 
med.  Oh,  no,  I  do  not  tread  a  darkened  pathway,  Mrs. 
Endicott.  There  is  light  upon  it  from  the  Sun  of  hea 
ven,  and  I  am  walking  forward,  weary  at  times,  it  may 
be,  but  with  unwavering  footsteps.  I  have  been  tried 
sorely,  it  is  true — I  have  suffered,  oh  how  deeply  !  and 
yet  I  can  say,  and  do  say,  it  is  good  for  me  that  I  was 
afflicted.  But  I  meant  not  to  speak  so  much  of  myself, 
and  you  must  forgive  the  intrusion.  Self,  you  know,  is 
ever  an  attractive  theme.  I  have  called  this  morning 
to  try  and  interest  you  in  a  poor  woman  who  lives  next 
door  to  me.  She  is  very  ill,  and  I  am  afraid  will  die. 
She  has  two  children,  almost  babes — sweet  little  things 
— and  if  the  mother  is  taken  they  will  be  left  without 
a  home  or  a  friend,  unless  God  puts  it  into  the  heart  of 
some  one  to  give  them  both.  I  have  been  awake  half 
the  night,  thinking  about  them,  and  debating  the  diffi 
cult  question  of  my  duty  in  the  case.  I  might  make 
room  for  one  of  them — " 

"You  !"  Mrs.  Endicott  interrupted  her  in  a  voice  of 
unfeigned  astonishment.  "You!  How  can  you  give 
place  a  moment  to  such  a  thought,  broken  down  in  health 
as  you  are,  and  with  five  children  of  your  own  clinging 


THE  DARKENED  PATHWAY.  277 

to  you  for  support  ?  It  would  be  unjust  to  yourself  and 
to  them.  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  That  makes  the  difficulty  in  the  case,"  replied  Mrs. 
Adair.  "  The  spirit  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak. 
My  heart  is  large  enough  to  take  both  of  them  in ;  but 
I  have  not  strength  enough  to  bear  the  added  burden. 
And  so  I  have  come  around  this  morning  to  see  if  I 
cannot  awaken  your  interest.  They  are  dear,  sweet 
children,  and  will  carry  sunshine  and  a  blessing  into  any 
home  that  opens  to  receive  them." 

"  But  why,  my  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Endicott,  "  do  you, 
whose  time  is  so  precious — who  have  cares,  and  interests, 
and  anxieties  of  your  own,  far  more  than  enough  for 
one  poor,  weak  woman  to  bear,  burden  yourself  with  a 
duty  like  this  ?  Leave  the  task  to  others  more  fitted 
for  the  work." 

"  There  are  but  few  who  can  rightly  sympathize  with 
that  mother  and  her  babes ;  and  I  am  one  of  the  few. 
Ah !  my  kind  friend,  none  but  the  mother,  who  like  me 
has  been  brought  to  the  verge  of  eternity,  can  truly  feel 
for  one  in  like  circumstances.  I  have  looked  at  my  own 
precious  ones,  as  I  felt  the  waves  of  time  sweeping  my 
feet  from  their  earthly  resting  place,  and  wept  bitter 
tears  as  no  answer  came  to  the  earnest  question,  '  Who 
will  love  them,  who  will  care  for  them  when  I  am  taken  ?' 
You  cannot  know,  Mrs.  Endicott,  how  profoundly  thank 
ful  to  God  I  am,  that  He  spares  my  life,  and  yet  gives 
me  strength  to  do  for  my  children.  I  bless  His  name 
for  this  tender  mercy  towards  me  when  I  lie  down  at 
night,  and  when  I  rise  up  in  the  morning.  I  bear  every 
burden,  I  endure  every  pain  cheerfully,  hopefully,  even 


278  THE   DABKENED   PATHWAY. 

thankfully.  It  is  because  I  can  understand  the  heart 
of  this  dying  mother,  and  feel  for  her  in  her  mortal  ex 
tremity,  that  I  undertake  her  cause.  You  have  only  one 
child,  my  friend,  and  she  is  partly  grown.  '  A  babe  in 
the  house  is  a  well-spring  of  pleasure.'  Is  it  not  so? 
Take  one,  or  even  both  of  these  children,  if  the  mother 
dies.  They  are  the  little  ones  who  are  born  upon  the 
earth,  in  order  that  they  may  become  angels  in  Heaven. 
They  are  of  God's  kingdom,  and  precious  in  His  eyes. 
Nurture  and  raise  them  up  for  Him.  Come  !  oh,  come 
with  me  to  the  bedside  of  this  dying  mother,  and  say  to 
her,  '  Give  me  your  babes,  and  I  will  shelter  them  in 
my  heart.'  So  doing,  you  will  open  for  yourself  a  pe 
rennial  fountain  of  delight.  The  picture  of  that  poor 
mother's  joyful  face,  painted  instantly  by  love's  bright 
sunbeams  on  your  memory,  will  be  a  source  of  pleasure 
lasting  as  eternity.  Do  not  neglect  this  golden  oppor 
tunity,  nor  leave  other  hands  to  gather  the  blessings 
which  lie  about  ypur  feet." 

That  earnest  plea  was  echoed  from  the  heart  of  Mrs. 
Endicbtt.  The  beautiful  enthusiasm,  so  full  of  a  con 
vincing  eloquence,  prevailed ;  and  the  woman  in  whose 
heart  the  waters  of  benevolence  were  growing  stagnant, 
and  already  sending  up  exhalations  that  were  hiding  the 
Sun  of  heaven,  felt  a  yearning  pity  for  the  dying  mo 
ther,  and  was  moved  by  an  unselfish  impulse  toward  her 
and  her  babes.  Half  an  hour  afterwards  she  was  in  the 
sick-chamber;  and  ere  leaving  had  received  from  the 
happy  mother  the  solemn  gift  of  her  children,  and  seen 
her  eyes  close  gently  as  her  spirit  took  its  tranquil  de 
parture  for  its  better  home. 


THE   DARKENED   PATHWAY.  279 

"God  will  bless  you,  madam  !' 

All  the  dying  mother's  thankfulness  was  compressed 
into  these  words,  and  her  full  heart  spent  itself  in  their 
utterance. 

Far  away,  in  the  inner  depths  of  Mrs.  Endicott's  spirit 
— very  far  away-— the  words  found  an  echo ;  and  as  this 
echo  came  back  to  her  ears,  she  felt  a  new  thrill  of  plea 
sure  that  ran  deeper  down  the  electric  chain  of  feelings 
than  emotion  had  ever,  until  now,  penetrated.  There 
were  depths  and  capacities  in  her  being  unknown  before ; 
and  of  this  she  had  now  a  dim  perception.  Her  action 
was  unselfish,  and  to  be  unselfish  is  to  be  God-like — for 
God  acts  from  a  love  of  blessing  others.  To  be  God 
like  in  her  action  brought  her  nearer  the  Infinite  Source 
of  what  is  pure  and  holy ;  and  all  proximity  in  this  di 
rection  gives  its  measure  of  interior  delight — as  all  retro 
cession  gives  its  measure  of  darkness  and  disquietude. 

"  God  will  bless  you !" 

Mrs.  End.icott  never  ceased  hearing  these  words,  and 
she  felt  them  to  be  a  prophecy.  And  God  did  bless  her. 
In  bestowing  love  and  care  upon  the  motherless  little 
ones,  she  received  from  above  double  for  all  she  gave. 
In  blessing,  she  was  twice  blessed.  About  them  her 
heart  entwined  daily  new  tendrils,  until  her  own  life 
beat  with  theirs  in  even  pulses,  and  to  seek  their  good 
was  the  highest  joy  of  her  existence. 

Still  there  were  times  when  Mrs.  Endicott  felt  that  to 
some  God  was  not  just  in  his  dispensations,  and  the 
closer  she  observed  Mrs.  Adair,  the  less  satisfied  was 
she  that  one  so  pure-minded,  so  unselfish,  so  earnest  to 
impart  good  to  others,  should  be  so  hardly  dealt  by — 


280  THE  DARKENED  PATHWAY. 

should  be  compelled  to  grope  through  life  with  painful 
steps  along  a  darkened  way. 

"  There  is  a  mystery  in  all  this  which  my  dim  vision 
fails  to  penetrate,"  she  said  one  day,  to  Mrs.  Adair. 
"  But  we  see  here  only  in  part — I  must  force  myself 
into  the  belief  that  all  is  right.  I  say  force,  for  it  is 
indeed  force-work." 

"  To  me,"  was  answered,  "there  is  no  longer  a  mys 
tery  here.  I  have  been  led  by  a  way  that  I  knew  not. 
For  a  time  I  moved  along  this  way,  doubting,  fearing, 
trembling — but  now  I  see  that  it  is  the  right  way,  and 
though  toilsome  at  times,  yet  it  is  winding  steadily  up 
wards,  and  I  begin  to  see  the  sunshine  resting  calmly 
on  the  mountain-tops.  Flowers,  too,  are  springing  by 
the  wayside — few  they  are,  as  yet,  but  very  fragrant." 

Mrs.  Adair  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumed, 

"  It  may  sound  strange  to  you,  but  I  am  really  hap 
pier  than  when  all  was  bright  and  prosperous  around 
me." 

Mrs.  Endicott  looked  surprised. 

"  I  am  a  better  woman,  and  therefore  happier.  I  do 
not  say  this  boastfully,  but  only  to  meet  your  question. 
I  am  a  more  useful  woman,  and  therefore  happier,  for, 
as  I  have  learned,  inward  peace  is  the  sure  reward  of 
benefits  conferred.  The  doing  of  good  to  another,  from 
an  unselfish  end,  brings  to  the  heart  its  purest  pleasure ; 
and  is  not  that  the  kindest  Providence  which  leads  us, 
no  matter  by  what  hard  experiences,  into  a  state  of 
willingness  to  live  for  others  instead  of  for  ourselves 
alone  ?  The  dying  mother,  whose  gift  to  you  has  proved 
so  groat  a  good,  might  have  passed  away,  though  her 


THE   DARKENED   PATHWAY.  281 

humble  abode  stood  beside  the  elegant  residence  I  called 
my  home,  without  exciting  more  than  a  passing  wave  of 
sympathy — certainly  without  filling  my  heart  with  the 
yearning  desire  to  make  truly  peaceful  her  last  mo 
ments,  which  led  to  the  happy  results  that  followed  her 
efforts  in  my  behalf.  My  children,  too ;  you  have  often 
lamented  that  it  is  not  so  well  with  them  as  it  would 
have  been  had  misfortune  not  overshadowed  us, — but  I 
am  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  believe  that  all  external  dis 
advantages  will  be  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the 
higher  regard  I  have  been  led  to  take  in  the  develop 
ment  of  what  is  good  and  true  in  their  characters.  I 
now  see  them  as  future  men  and  women,  for  whose  use 
fulness  and  happiness  I  am  in  a  great  measure  responsi 
ble  ;  and  as  my  views  of  life  have  become  clearer,  and 
I  trust  wiser,  through  suffering,  I  am  far  better  able, 
under  all  the  disadvantages  of  my  position,  to  secure 
this  great  end  than  I  was  before." 

"  But  the  way  is  hard  for  you — very  hard,"  said  Mrs. 
Endicott. 

"  It  is  my  preparation  for  Heaven,"  replied  the  pa 
tient  sufferer,  while  a  smile,  not  caught  from  earth,  made 
beautiful  her  countenance.  ".If  my  Heavenly  Father 
could  have  made  the  way  smoother,  He  would  have  done 
so.  As  it  is,  I  thank  Him  daily  for  the  roughness,  and 
would  not  ask  to  have  a  stone  removed  or  a  rough  place 
made  even." 


LOOK  ON  THIS  PICTURE. 

0,  IT  is  life !  departed  days 
Fling  back  their  brightness  while  I  gaze-— 
'Tis  Emma's  self — this  brow  so  fair, 
Half-curtained  in  this  glossy  hair, 
These  eyes,  the  very  home  of  love, 
The  dark  thin  arches  traced  above, 
These  red-ripe  lips  that  almost  speak, 
The  fainter  blush  of  this  pure  cheek, 
The  rose  and  lily's  beauteous  strife — 
It  is — ah,  no !  'tis  all  but  life. 

'Tis  all  but  life — art  could  not  save 

Thy  graces,  Emma,  from  the  grave ; 

Thy  cheek  is  pale,  thy  smile  is  past, 

Thy  love-lit  eyes  have  looked  their  last, 

Mouldering  beneath  the  coffin's  lid, 

All  we  adored  of  thee  is  hid ; 

Thy  heart,  where  goodness  loved  to  dwell, 

Is  throbless  in  the  narrow  cell : 

Thy  gentle  voice  shall  charm  no  more ; 

Its  last,  last  joyful  note  is  o'er. 

Oft,  oft,  indeed,  it  hath  been  sung, 
The  requiem  of  the  fair  and  young ; 
The  theme  is  old,  alas  !  how  old, 
Of  grief  that  will  not  be  controlled, 
Of  sighs  that  speak  a  father's  woe, 
Of  pangs  that  none  but  mothers  know, 
Of  friendship  with  its  bursting  heart, 
Doomed  from  the  idol-one  to  part — 
Still  its  sad  debt  must  feeling  pay, 
Till  feeling,  too,  shall  pass  away. 


LOOK   ON   THIS   PICTURE.  283 

0  say,  why  age,  and  grief,  and  pain, 
Shall  long  to  go,  but  long  in  vain  ? 
Why  vice  is  left  to  mock  at  time, 
And  gray  in  years,  grow  gray  in  crime ; 
While  youth,  that  every  eye  makes  glad, 
And  beauty,  all  in  radiance  clad, 
And  goodness,  cheering  every  heart, 
Come,  but  come  only  to  depart ; 
Sunbeams,  to  cheer  life's  wintry  day, 
Sunbeams,  to  flash,  then  fade  away  ? 

'Tis  darkness  all !  black  banners  wave 

Round  the  cold  borders  of  the  grave; 

Then  when  in  agony  we  bend 

O'er  the  fresh  sod  that  hides  a  friend, 

One  only  comfort  then  we  know — 

We,  too,  shall  quit  this  world  of  woe ; 

We,  too,  shall  find  a  quiet  place 

With  the  dear  lost  ones  of  our  race  ; 

Our  crumbling  bones  with  theirs  shall  blend, 

And  life's  sad  story  find  an  end. 

And  is  this  all — this  mournful  doom  ? 
Beams  no  glad  light  beyond  the  tomb  ? 
Mark  how  yon  clouds  in  darkness  ride ; 
They  do  not  quench  the  orb  they  hide ; 
Still  there  it  wheels — the  tempest  o'er, 
In  a  bright  sky  to  burn  once  more ; 
So,  far  above  the  clouds  of  time, 
Faith  can  behold  a  world  sublime — 
There,  when  the  storms  of  life  are  past, 
The  light  beyond  shall  break  at  last. 


THE  POWER  OF  KINDNESS. 

How  much  is  comprised  in  the  simple  word,  kindness  I 
One  kind  word,  or  even  one  mild  look,  will  oftentimes 
dispel  thick  gathering  gloom  from  the  countenance  of 
an  affectionate  husband,  or  wife.  When  the  temper  is 
tried  by  some  inconvenience  or  trifling  vexation,  and 
marks  of  displeasure  are  depicted  upon  the  countenance, 
and  perhaps,  too,  that  most  "unruly  of  all  members" 
is  ready  to  vent  its  spleen  upon  the  innocent  husband 
or  wife,  what  will  a  kind  mien,  a  pleasant  reply,  accom 
plish  ?  Almost  invariably  perfect  harmony  and  peace 
are  thus  restored. 

These  thoughts  were  suggested  by  the  recollection  of 
a  little  domestic  incident,  to  which  I  was  a  silent,  though 
not  uninterested  spectator.  During  the  summer  months 
of  1834,  I  was  spending  several  weeks  with  a  happy 
married  pair,  who  had  tasted  the  good  and  ills  of  life 
together  only  a  twelvemonth.  Both  possessed  many 
amiable  qualities,  and  were  well  calculated  to  promote 
each  other's  happiness.  My  second  visit  to  my  friends 
was  of  a  week's  duration,  in  the  month  of  December. 
One  cold  evening  the  husband  returned  home  at  his 
usual  hour  at  nine  o'clock,  expecting  to  find  a  warm  fire 
for  his  reception,  but,  instead,  he  found  a  cheerless, 
comfortless  room.  His  first  thought,  no  doubt,  was, 
that  it  was  owing  to  the  negligen.ee  of  his  wife,  and, 
under  this  impression,  in  rather  a  severe  tone,  he  said, 

"  This  is  too  bad ;  to  come  in  from  the  office  cold, 


THE   POWER  OF   KINDNESS.  285 

and  find  no  fire ;  I  really  should  have  thought  you  might 
have  kept  it." 

I  sat  almost  breathless,  trembling  for  the  reply.  I 
well  knew  it  was  no  fault  of  hers,  for  she  had  wasted 
nearly  all  the  evening,  and  almost  exhausted  her  pa 
tience,  in  attempting  to  kindle  a  fire.  She  in  a  moment 
replied,  with  great  kindness, 

"Why,  my  dear,  I  wonder  what  is  the  matter  with 
our  stove  !  We  must  have  something  done  to-morrow, 
for  I  have  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  vain  to  make  a 
fire." 

This  was  said  in  such  a  mild,  pleasant  tone,  that  it 
had  the  most  happy  effect.  If  she  had  replied  at  that 
moment,  when  his  feelings  were  alive  to  supposed  neg 
lect,  "  I  don't  know  who  is  to  blame ;  I  have  done  my 
part,  and  have  been  freezing  all  the  evening  for  my 
pains.  If  the  stove  had  been  put  up  as  it  should  have 
been,  all  would  have  been  well  enough."  This,  said  in 
an  unamiable,  peevish  tone,  might  have  added  "  fuel  to 
the  fire,"  and  this  little  breeze  might  have  led  to  more 
serious  consequences ;  but,  fortunately,  her  mild  reply 
restored  perfect  serenity.  The  next  day  the  stove  was 
taken  down,  and  the  difficulty,  owing  to  some  defect  in 
the  flue,  was  removed.  What  will  not  a  kind  word 
accomplish  ? 


SPEAK  KINDLY. 

SPEAK  kindly,  speak  kindly !  ye  know  not  the  power 

Of  a  kind  and  gentle  word, 
As  its  tones  in  a  sad  and  weary  hour 
By  the  troubled  Jheart  are  heard. 
Ye  know  not  how  often  it  falls  to  bless 
The  stranger  in  his  weariness ; 
How  many  a  blessing  is  round  thee  thrown 
By  the  magic  spell  of  a  soft,  low  tone. 
Speak  kindly,  then,  kindly ;  there's  nothing  lost 

By  gentle  words — to  the  heart  and  ear 
Of  the  sad  and  lonely,  they're  dear,  how  dear, 
And  they  nothing  cost. 

Speak  kindly  to  childhood.    Oh,  do  not  fling 

A  cloud  o'er  life's  troubled  sky ; 
But  cherish  it  well — a  holy  thing 
Is  the  heart  in  its  purity. 
Enough  of  sorrow  the  cold  world  hath, 
Enough  of  care  in  its  later  path, 
And  ye  do  a  wrong  if  ye  seek  to  throw 
O'er  the  fresh  young  spirit  a  shade  of  woe. 
Speak  kindly,  then,  kindly ;  there's  nothing  lost 

By  gentle  words — to  the  heart  and  ear 
Of  joyous  childhood,  they're  dear,  how  dear — 
And  they  nothing  cost. 

Speak  gently  to  age — a  weary  way 
Is  the  rough  and  toilsome  road  of  life, 

AB  one  by  one  its  joys  decay, 
And  its  hopes  go  out  'mid  its  lengthened  strife. 
How  often  the  word  that  is  kindly  spoken, 
Will  bind  up  the  heart  that  is  well  nigh  broken. 


SPEAK   KINDLY.  287 

Then  pass  not  the  feeble  and  aged  one 

With  a  cold,  and  careless,  and  slighting  tone ; 

But  kindly,  speak  kindly ;  there's  nothing  lost 
By  gentle  words — to  the  heart  and  ear 

Of  the  care-worn  and  weary,  they're  dear,  how  dear — 
And  they  nothing  cost. 

Speak  kindly  to  those  who  are  haughty  and  cold, 

Ye  know  not  the  thoughts  that  are  dwelling  there ; 
Ye  know  not  the  feelings  that  struggle  untold — 
Oh,  every  heart  hath  its  burden  of  care. 

And  the  curl  of  the  lip,  and  the  scorn  of  the  eye 
•  Are  often  a  bitter  mockery, 
When  a  bursting  heart  its  grief  would  hide 
From  the  eye  of  the  world  'neath  a  veil  of  pride. 
Speak  kindly,  then,  kindly ;  there's  nothing  lost 

By  gentle  words — to  the  heart  and  ear 
Of  the  proud  and  haughty  they're  often  dear, 
And  they  nothing  cost. 

Speak  kindly  ever — oh,  cherish  well 

The  light  of  a  gentle  tone; 
It  will  fling  round  thy  pathway  a  magic  spell, 
A  charm  that  is  all  its  own. 

But  see  that  it  springs  from  a  gentle  heart, 
That  it  need  not  the  hollow  aid  of  art ; 
Let  it  gush  in  its  joyous  purity, 
From  its  home  in  the  heart  all  glad  and  free. 
Speak  kindly,  then,  kindly ;  there's  nothing  lost 

By  gentle  words— to  the  heart  and  ear 
Of  all  who  hear  them  they're  dear,  how  dear — 
And  they  nothing  cost. 


HAVE  PATIENCE. 

IT  was  Saturday  evening,  about  eight  o'clock.  Mary 
Gray  had  finished  mangling,  and  had  sent  home  the  last 
basket  of  clothes.  She  had  swept  up  her  little  room, 
stirred  the  fire,  and  placed  upon  it  a  saucepan  of  water. 
She  had  brought  out  the  bag  of  oatmeal,  a  basin,  and  a 
spoon,  and  laid  them  upon  the  round  deal  table.  The 
place,  though  very  scantily  furnished,  looked  altogether 
neat  and  comfortable.  Mary  now  sat  idle  by  the  fire. 
She  was  not  often  idle.  She  was  a  pale,  delicate-look 
ing  woman,  of  about  five-and-thirty.  She  looked  like 
one  who  had  worked  beyond  her  strength,  and  her  thin 
face  had  a  very  anxious,  careworn  expression.  Her 
dress  showed  signs  of  poverty,  but  it  was  scrupulously 
clean  and  neat.  As  it  grew  later,  she  seemed  to  be  lis 
tening  attentively  for  the  approach  of  some  one ;  she 
was  ready  to  start  up  every  time  a  step  came  near  her 
door.  •  At  length  a  light  step  approached,  and  did  not 
go  by  it ;  it  stopped,  and  there  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the 
door.  Mary's  pallid  face  brightened,  and  in  a  moment 
she  had  let  in  a  fine,  intelligent-looking  lad,  about  thir 
teen  years  of  age,  whom  she  welcomed  with  evident 
delight. 

"You  are  later  than  usual  to-night,  Stephen,"  she 
said. 

Stephen  did  not  reply ;  but  he  threw  off  his  cap,  and 
placed  himself  in  the  seat  Mary  had  quitted. 


HAVE   PATIENCE.  289 

"You  do  not  look  well  to-night,  dear,"  said  Mary, 
anxiously;  "is  anything  the  matter?" 

"I  am  quite  well,  mother,"  replied  the  boy.  "Let 
me  have  my  supper.  I  am  quite  ready  for  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  turned  away  his  eyes  from  Mary's 
inquiring  look.  Mary,  without  another  word,  set  her 
self  about  preparing  the  supper  of  oatmeal  porridge. 
She  saw  that  something  was  wrong  with  Stephen,  and 
that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  questioned,  so  she  remained 
silent.  In  the  mean  time  Stephen  had  placed  his  feet 
on  the  fender,  rested  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  his 
head  on  his  hands.  His  hands  covered  his  face ;  and, 
by  and  by,  a  few  large  tears  began  to  trickle  down  his 
fingers.  Then  suddenly  dashing  off  his  tears,  as  though 
he  were  ashamed  of  them,  he  showed  his  pale,  agitated 
face,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  indignation  and  resolve, 

"Mother,  I  am  determined  I  will  bear  it  no  longer." 

Mary  was  not  surprised.  She  finished  pouring  out 
the  porridge;  then,  taking  a  stool,  she  seated  herself 
beside  him. 

"  Why,  Stephen,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully, 
"  how  many  hundred  times  before  have  you  made  that 
resolution!  But  what's  the  matter  now?  Have  you 
any  new  trouble  to  tell  me  of  ?" 

Stephen  answered  by  silently  removing  with  his  hand 
some  of  his  thick  curly  hair,  and  showing  beneath  it  an 
ear  bearing  the  too  evident  marks  of  cruel  usage. 

"  My  poor  boy !"  exclaimed  Mary,  her  tears  starting 
forth.  "  Could  he  be  so  cruel?" 

"It  is  nothing,  mother,"  replied  the  boy,  sorry  to 
have  called  forth  his  mother's  tears.  "  I  don't  care  for 
19 


390  HAVE   PATIENCE. 

it.  It  was  done  in  a  passion,  and  he  was  sorry  for  it 
after." 

"But  what  could  you  have  done,  Stephen,  to  make 
him  so  angry  with  you?" 

"  I  was  selling  half  a  quire  of  writing  paper  to  a 
lady :  he  counted  the  sheets  after  me,  and  found  thir 
teen  instead  of  only  twelve ;  they  had  stuck  together 
so,  that  I  took  two  for  one.  I  tried  to  explain,  but  he 
was  in  a  passion,  and  gave  me  a  blow.  The  lady  said 
something  to  him  about  his  improper  conduct,  and  he 
said  that  I  was  such  a  careless  little  rascal,  that  he  lost 
all  patience  with  me.  That  hurt  me  a  great  deal  more 
than  the  blow.  It  was  a  falsehood,  and  he  knew  it ;  but 
he  wanted  to  excuse  himself.  I  felt  that  I  was  going 
into  a  passion,  too,  but  I  thought  of  what  you  are 
always  telling  me  about  patience  and  forbearance,  and 
I  kept  down  my  passion ;  I  know  he  was  sorry  for  it 
after,  from  the  way  he  spoke  to  me,  though  he  didn't 
say  so." 

"I  have  no  doubt  he  suffered  more  than  you,  Ste 
phen,"  said  Mary ;  "  he  would  be  vexed  that  he  had 
shown  his  temper  before  the  lady,  vexed  that  he  had 
told  a  lie,  and  vexed  that  he  had  hurt  you  when  you 
bore  it  so  patiently." 

"  Yes,  mother,  but  that  doesn't  make  it  easier  for  me 
to  bear  his  ill  temper ;  I've  borne  it  now  for  more  than 
a  year  for  your  sake,  and  I  can  bear  it  no  longer.  Sure 
ly  I  can  get  something  to  do ;  I'm  sturdy  and  healthy, 
and  willing  to  do  any  kind  of  work." 

Mary  shook  her  head,  and  remained  for  a  long  time 
silent  and  thoughtful.  At  length  she  said,  with  a  solemn 


HAVE   PATIENCE.  291 

earnestness  of  manner  that  almost  made  poor  Stephen 
cry, 

"You  say  that,  for  my  sake,  you  have  borne  your 
master's  unkind  treatment  for  more  than  a  year ;  for 
my  sake,  bear  it  longer,  Stephen.  Your  patience  must, 
and  will  be  rewarded  in  the  end.  You  know  how  I 
have  worked,  day  and  night,  ever  since  your  poor  father 
died,  when  you  were  only  a  little  infant  in  the  cradle, 
to  feed  and  clothe  you,  and  to  pay  for  your  schooling, 
for  I  was  determined  that  you  should  have  schooling ; 
you  know  how  I  have  been  cheered  in  all  my  toil  by  the 
hope  of  seeing  you,  one  day,  getting  on  in  the  world. 
And  I  know,  Stephen,  that  you  will  get  on.  You  are 
a  good,  honest  lad,  and  kind  to  your  poor  mother,  and 
God  will  reward  you.  But  not  if  you  are  hasty ;  not 
if  you  are  impatient.  You  know  how  hard  it  was  for 
me  to  get  you  this  situation ;  you  might  not  get  another ; 
you  must  not  leave ;  you  must  not  break  your  inden 
tures  ;  you  must  be  patient  and  industrious  still ;  you 
have  a  hard  master,  and,  God  knows,  it  costs  me  many 
a  heartache  to  think  of  what  you  have  to  suffer ;  but 
bear  with  him,  Stephen ;  bear  with  him,  for  my  sake,  a 
few  years  longer." 

Stephen  was  now  fairly  crying,  and  his  mother  kissed 
off  his  tears,  while  her  own  flowed  freely.  Her  appeal 
to  his  affection  was  not  in  vain.  He  soon  smiled  through 
his  tears,  as  he  said, 

"  Well,  mother,  you  always  know  how  to  talk  me  over. 
When  I  came  in  to-night,  I  did  think  that  I  would  never 
go  the  shop  again.  But  I  will  promise  you  to  be  pa 
tient  and  industrious  still.  Considering  all  that,  you 


292  HAVE  PATIENCE. 

have  done  for  me,  this  is  little  enough  for  me  to  do  for 
you.  When  I  have  a  shop  of  my  own,  you  shall  live 
like  a  lady.  I'll  trust  to  your  word  that  I  shall  be  sure 
to  get  on,  if  I  am  patient  and  industrious,  though  I 
don't  see  how  it's  to  be. — It's  not  so  very  bad  to  bear 
after  all ;  and,  bad  as  my  master  is,  there's  one  com 
fort,  he  lets  me  have  my  Saturday  nights  and  blessed 
Sundays  with  you.  Well,  I  feel  happier  now,  and  I 
think  I  can  eat  my  supper.  We  forgot  that  my  porridge 
was  getting  cold  all  this  time." 

Stephen  kept  his  word;  day  after  day,  and  month 
after  month,  his  patience  and  industry  never  flagged. 
And  plenty  of  trials,  poor  fellow,  he  had  for  his  forti 
tude.  His  master,  a  small  stationer  in  a  small  country 
town,  to  whom  Stephen  was  bound  apprentice  for  five 
years,  with  a  salary  barely  sufficient  to  keep  him  in 
clothes,  was  a  little,  spare,  sharp-faced  man,  who  seemed 
to  have  worn  himself  away  with  continual  fretfulness 
and  vexation.  He  was  perpetually  fretting,  perpetually 
finding  fault  with  something  or  other,  perpetually  think 
ing  that  everything  was  going  wrong.  Though  he  did 
cease  to  go  into  a  passion  with,  and  to  strike  Stephen, 
the  poor  lad  was  an  object  always  at  hand,  on  which 
to  vent  his  ill-humour.  Many,  many  times  was  Ste 
phen  on  the  point  of  losing  heart  and  temper ;  but 
he  was  always  able  to  control  himself  by  thinking  of 
his  mother.  And,  as  he  said,  there  was  always  comfort 
in  those  Saturday  nights  and  blessed  Sundays.  A  long 
walk  in  the  country  on  those  blessed  Sundays,  and  the 
Testament  readings  to  his  mother,  would  always  strength 
en  his  often  wavering  faith  in  her  prophecies  of  good  in 


HAVE   PATIENCE.  293 

the  end,  would  cheer  his  spirits,  and  nerve  him  with  a 
fresh  resolution  for  the  coming  week.  And  what  was 
it  that  the  widow  hoped  would  result  from  this  painful 
bondage  ?  She  did  not  know ;  she  only  had  faith  in  her 
doctrine — that  patience  and  industry  would  some  time 
be  rewarded.  How  the  reward  was  to  come  in  her  son's 
case,  she  could  not  see.  It  seemed  likely,  indeed,  from 
all  appearances,  that  the  doctrine  in  this  case  would 
prove  false.  But  still  she  had  faith. 

It  was  now  nearly  four  years  since  the  conversation 
between  mother  and  son  before  detailed.  They  were 
together  again  on  the  Saturday  evening.  Stephen  had 
grown  into  a  tall,  manly  youth,  with  a  gentle,  kind,  and 
thoughtful  expression  of  countenance.  Mary  looked 
much  older,  thinner,  paler,  and  more  anxious.  Both 
were  at  this  moment  looking  very  downcast. 

"  I  do  not  see  that  anything  can  be  hoped  from  him," 
said  Stephen,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  have  now  served  him 
faithfully  for  five  years ;  I  have  borne  patiently  all  his 
ill-humour ;  I  have  never  been  absent  a  moment  from 
my  post ;  and  during  all  that  time,  notwithstanding  all 
this,  he  has  never  thanked  me,  he  has  never  so  much  as 
given  me  a  single  kind  word,  nor  even  a  kind  look.  He 
must  know  that  my  apprenticeship  will  be  out  on  Tues 
day,  yet  he  never  says  a  word  to  me  about  it,  and  I 
suppose  I  must  just  go  without  a  word." 

"  You  must  speak  to  him,"  said  Mary ;  "  you  cannot 
leave  without  saying  something ;  and  tell  him  exactly 
how  you  are  situated ;  he  cannot  refuse  to  do  something 
to  help  you." 

"  It  is  easy  to  talk  of  speaking  to  him,  mother,  but 


294  HAVE   PATIEXCE. 

not  so  easy  to  do  it.  I  have  often  before  thought  of 
speaking  to  him,  of  telling  him  how  very,  very  poor  we 
are,  and  begging  a  little  more  salary.  But  I  never 
could  do  it  when  I  came  before  him.  I  seemed  to  feel 
that  he  would  refuse  me,  and  I  felt  somehow  too  proud 
to  ask  a  favour  that  would  most  likely  be  refused.  But 
it  shall  be  done  now,  mother ;  I  will  not  be  a  burthen 
upon  you,  if  I  can  help  it.  I'd  sooner  do  anything  than 
that.  He  ought  to  do  something  for  me,  and  there's 
no  one  else  that  I  know  of  that  can.  I  will  speak  to 
him  on  Monday." 

Monday  evening  was  come ;  all  day  Stephen  had  been 
screwing  up  his  courage  for  the  task  he  had  to  do ;  of 
course  it  could  not  be  done  when  his  master  and  he  were 
in  the  shop  together,  for  there  they  were  liable  at  any 
moment  to  be  interrupted.  At  dinner-time  they  sepa 
rated  ;  for  they  took  the  meal  alternately,  that  the  post 
in  the  shop  might  never  be  deserted.  But  now  the  day's 
work  was  over :  everything  was  put  away,  and  master 
and  apprentice  had  retired  into  the  little  back  parlour 
to  take  their  tea.  As  usual,  they  were  alone,  for  the 
stationer  was  a  single  man  (which  might  account  for  the 
sourness  of  his  temper),  and  the  meal  was  usually  taken 
in  silence,  and  soon  after  it  was  over  they  would  both 
retire  to  bed,  still  in  silence.  Stephen's  master  had 
poured  out  for  him  his  first  cup  of  tea,  handed  it  to  him 
without  looking  at  him,  and  begun  to  swallow  his  own 
potion.  Stephen  allowed  his  cup  to  remain  before  him 
untouched ;  he  glanced  timidly  towards  his  master,  drew 
a  deep  breath,  coloured  slightly,  and  then  began : — 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 


HAVE   PATIEXCK.  295 

His  master  looked  up  with  a  sudden  jerk  of  the  head, 
and  fixed  his  keen  gray  eyes  on  poor  Stephen's  face. 
He  did  not  seem  at  all  surprised,  but  said  sharply  (and 
he  had  a  very  sharp  voice),  "  Well,  sir,  speak  on." 

Stephen  was  determined  not  to  be  discouraged,  so  he 
began  to  tell  his  little  tale.  His  voice  faltered  at  first, 
but  as  he  went  on  he  became  quite  eloquent.  He  spoke 
with  a  boldness  which  astonished  himself.  He  forgot 
his  master,  and  thought  only  of  his  mother.  He  told 
all  about  her  poverty,  and  struggles  to  get  a  living. 
He  dwelt  strongly,  but  modestly,  on  his  own  conduct 
during  his  apprenticeship,  and  finished  by  entreating 
his  master  now  to  help  him  to  do  something,  for  he  had 
nothing  in  the  world  to  turn  to,  no  friends,  no  money, 
no  influence. 

His  master  heard  him  to  an  end.  He  had  soon  with 
drawn  his  eyes  from  Stephen's  agitated  face,  then 
partially  averted  his  own  face,  then  left  his  seat,  and 
advanced  to  a  side  table,  where  he  began  to  rummage 
among  some  papers,  with  his  back  to  Stephen. 

Stephen  had  ceased  speaking  some  time  before  he 
made  any  reply.  Then  still  without  turning  round,  he 
spoke,  beginning  with  a  sort  of  grunting  ejaculation — 
"  Humph !  so  your  mother  gets  her  living  by  mangling, 
does  she?  and  she  thought  that  if  she  got  you  some 
schooling,  and  taught  you  to  behave  yourself,  your  for 
tune  would  be  made.  Well,  you  will  be  free  to-morrow ; 
you  may  go  to  her  and  tell  her  she  is  a  fool  for  her 
pains.  Here  are  your  indentures,  and  here's  the  salary 
that's  due  to  you.  Now  you  may  go  to  bed." 

As  he  spoke  the  last  words,  he  had  taken  the  inden- 


296  HAVE   PATIENCE. 

tures  from  a  desk,  and  the  money  from  his  purse. 
Stephen  felt  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat  as  he  took 
from  his  hands  the  paper  and  the  money ;  he  would  even 
have  uttered  the  indignation  he  felt,  but,  before  he  could 
speak,  his  master  left  the  room.  Disappointed  and 
heart-sick,  and  feeling  humiliated  that  he  should  have 
asked  a  favour  of  such  a  man,  the  poor  lad  retired  to 
his  garret,  and  it  was  almost  time  to  get  up  in  the  morn 
ing  before  he  could  fall  asleep.  On  the  Tuesday,  when 
the  day's  work  was  over,  Stephen  packed  up  his  bundle 
of  clothes; — should  he  say  good-bye  to  his  master? 
Yes ;  he  would  not  be  ungracious  at  the  last.  He  opened 
the  door  of  the  back  parlour,  and  stood  just  within  the 
door-way,  his  bundle  in  his  hand.  His  master  was 
sitting,  solitary,  at  the  tea-table. 

"I  am  going,  sir,  good-bye,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Good-bye,  sir,"  returned  his  master,  without  looking 
at  him.  .  And  so  they  parted. 

The  result  of  the  application  told,  the  mother  and  the 
son  sat  together  that  night  in  silence ;  their  hearts  were 
too  full  for  words.  Mary  sorrowed  most,  because  she 
had  hoped  most.  Bitter  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks, 
as  she  sat  brooding  over  her  disappointment.  Stephen 
looked  more  cheerful,  for  his  mind  was  busy  trying  to 
form  plans  for  the  future — how  he  should  go  about  to 
seek  for  another  situation,  &c.  Bed-time  came ;  both 
rose  to  retire  to  rest.  Stephen  had  pressed  his  mother's 
hand,  and  was  retiring,  saying  as  he  went,  "Never 
mind,  mother,  it'll  all  be  right  yet,"  when  they  were 
startled  by  a  loud  rap  at  the  door. 

"Who's  there?"  shouted  Stephen. 


HAVE   PATIENCE.  297 

"  A  letter  for  you,"  was  the  reply. 

Stephen  thought  there  was  some  mistake,  but  he 
opened  the  door.  A  letter  was  put  into  his  hand,  and 
the  bearer  disappeared.  Surprised,  Stephen  held  the 
letter  close  to  the  rush-light  Mary  was  carrying.  He 
became  still  more  surprised ;  it  was  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Gray,  that  was  his  mother,  and  he  thought  he  knew  the 
handwriting ;  it  was  very  like  his  master's.  Mary's  look 
of  wonder  became  suddenly  brightened  by  a  flash  of 
hope ;  she  could  not  read  writing — Stephen  must  read  it 
for  her.  He  opened  the  letter,  something  like  a  bank 
note  was  the  first  thing  he  saw — he  examined  it — it  was 
actually  a  ten  pound  Bank  of  England  note ;  his  heart 
beat  rapidly,  and  so  did  his  mother's ;  what  could  this 
mean  ?  But  there  was  a  little  note  which  would  perhaps 
explain.  Stephen's  fingers  trembled  sadly  as  he  opened 
it.  There  were  not  many  words,  but  they  were  to  the 
purpose.  Stephen  read  them  to  himself  before  he  read 
them  aloud.  And  as  he  was  reading,  his  face  turned 
very  red,  and  how  it  did  burn !  But  what  was  the 
meaning  of  tears,  and  he  looking  so  pleased?  Mary 
could  not  understand  it. 

"  Do  read  up,  Stephen,"  she  exclaimed. 

With  a  voice  broken  by  the  effort  he  had  to  make  all 
the  time  to  keep  from  crying,  Stephen  read, 

"  MADAM — Put  away  your  mangle — that  son  of  yours 
is  worth  mangling  for ;  but  it  is  time  to  rest  now.  The 
note  is  for  your  present  wants ;  in  future  your  son  may 
supply  you.  I  let  him  go  to-night ;  but  I  did  not  mean 
him  to  stay  away,  if  he  chooses  to  come  back.  I  don't 


298 


HAVE   PATIENCE. 


see  that  I  can  do  well  without  him.  But  I  don't  want 
him  back  if  he  would  rather  go  anywhere  else ;  I  know 
plenty  that  would  be  glad  to  have  him.  He  has  been 
seen  in  the  shop,  and  noticed,  and  such  lads  are  not 
always  to  be  got.  If  he  chooses  to  come  back  to  me,  he 
won't  repent.  I've  no  sons  of  my  own,  thank  God.  He 
knows  what  I  am ;  I  am  better  than  I  was,  and  I  may 
be  better  still.  I've  a  queer  way  of  doing  things,  but 
it  is  my  way,  and  can't  be  helped.  Tell  him  I'll  be 
glad  to  have  him  back  to-morrow,  if  he  likes.  Yours, 

"J.  W." 

"I  knew  it!"  exclaimed  Mary,  triumphantly;  "I 
always  said  so  !  I  knew  you  would  get  on !" 

Stephen  did  go  back  to  his  eccentric  master,  and  he 
never  had  any  reason  to  repent.  He  got  on  even  beyond 
his  mother's  most  soaring  hopes.  The  shop  eventually 
became  his  own,  and  he  lived  a  flourishing  and  respected 
tradesman.  We  need  scarcely  add  that  his  mother  had 
no  further  use  for  her  mangle,  and  that  she  was  a  very 
proud  and  a  very  happy  woman. 


DO  THEY  MISS  ME? 

Do  they  miss  me  at  home  ?  Do  they  miss  me  ? 

'Twould  be  an  assurance  most  dear, 
To  know  at  this  moment  some  loved  one 

Was  saying,  "  I  wish  he  was  here !" 
To  feel  that  the  group  at  the  fireside 

Were  thinking  of  me  as  I  roam  ! 
Oh,  yes !  'twould  be  joy  beyond  measure, 

To  know  that  they  missed  me  at  home. 

When  twilight  approaches — the  season 

That  ever  was  sacred  to  song — 
Does  some  one  repeat  my  name  over, 

And  sigh  that  I  tarry  so  long  ? 
And.  is  there  a  chord  in  the  music, 

That's  missed  when  my  voice  is  away  ? 
And  a  chord  in  each  glad  heart  that  waketh 

Regret  at  my  wearisome  stay  ? 

Do  they  place  me  a  chair  at  the  table, 

When  evening's  home  pleasures  are  nigh  I 
And  lamps  are  lit  up  in  the  parlour, 

And  stars  in  the  calm  azure  sky  ? 
And  when  the  "  Good  Nights"  are  repeated, 

And  each  lays  them  calmly  to  sleep, 
Do  they  think  of  the  absent,  and  waft  me 

A  whispered  "  Good-Night"  o'er  the  deep  ? 

Do  they  miss  me  at  home  ?  do  they  miss  me  ? 

At  morning,  at  noon,  or  at  night, 
And  lingers  one  gloomy  shade  round  them, 

That  only  my  presence  can  light  ? 


300  DO   THEY    MISS    ME? 

Are  joys  less  invitingly  welcomed, 
Are  pleasures  less  hailed  than  before, 

Because  one  is  missed  from  the  circle  ? 
Because  I  am  with  them  no  more  ? 

Oh,  yes !  they  do  miss  me !  kind  voices 

Are  calling  me  back  as  I  roam, 
And  eyes  are  grown  weary  with  weeping, 

And  watch  but  to  welcome  me  home. 
Kind  friends,  ye  shall  wait  me  no  longer, 

I'll  hurry  me  back  from  the  seas ; 
For  how  can  I  tarry  when  followed 

By  watchings  and  prayers  such  as  these? 


THE  END. 


(1) 


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